Buffy the Victorian Slayer
by pansymoomalfoy32
Summary: William's life changes forever the night a golden girl with a young face and ancient eyes rescues him from a monster in a dark alley. The world richens and unfolds. Nothing is as it seems. Layers upon layers, secrets upon secrets. Monsters are real, and so are heroes. A failed poet; William will be reforged in blood, love, and adventure-truly giving him something to write about.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer** going forward: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

A Poet in Distress

*All recognizable dialogue is from Fool for Love*

Here it is. The fragile moment of truth. With herculean courage, William Pratt meets Cecily Adams' expectant gaze. Odd, how he'd never before noticed the precise shape of her eyes. He'd not had the opportunity to see her so closely before.

Cecily shifts minutely and William, fearing she would take leave of his presence, utters his answer.

"I meant every syllable."

The world almost seems to shimmer with the same anticipation clogging William's throat. His heart thunders until he is left nearly breathless as he waits for her response.

Cecily's lips pull back from her teeth and she wrinkles her nose. "Oh, God…" She turns away from him.

Was that disappointment or excitement? William's heart flutters at the sight of Cecily's dainty hands twisting together. Could it be her nerves were equally as wrought? Or perhaps she was embarrassed by the public reading of William's feelings for her. Such a thing ought to have been private. William rushes round to face her.

"Please…I know this is sudden. And-and if they're no good, they're only words. But the feeling behind them…I love you, Cecily." William blurts the extent of his feelings in one fell rush. Oh, God! No taking the words back now.

Cecily face is frozen. "Please stop."

Though William knows he's revealed his hand further than is polite, he can't let the conversation end here.

"I know I'm a bad poet, but I'm a good man. All I ask is that you try to see me…"

Cecily finally addresses him directly. "I do see you."

William's breath catches. She sees him! All he's ever wanted was for someone to see-

"That's the problem." Cecily somehow seems to talk down her nose at William. "You're nothing to me, William. You're beneath me."

Cecily's disparaging words burn liquid hot through William's blood. His cheeks heat in shame and misery as he stumbles away.

Without thought to dignity or propriety, William shoves through colorful knots of tittering ladies. He hears the swell of raucous male laughter follow him out the door.

Back in the drawing room, a slim brunette in silk frowns hard in an unladylike way at William Pratt's abrupt departure.

"What a strange man!" Charles Henley says.

Thaddeus Stanton chuckles. "What a bore, you mean."

Charles laughs in agreement. "Too true. We're lucky you sent him running for the door, Stanton. Who knows how long our spirits would have been dampened by Pratt, otherwise."

Thaddeus tips his head in mocking acknowledgement. "Glad to be of service, ladies and gentlemen. Of course, had I known reading his dreadful writing aloud would have brought such quick results, I might have employed that tactic years ago."

"Oh, Mr. Stanton," a young lady in green exclaims. "You can't blame yourself!"

"Oh, yes you can," the frowning brunette mutters to herself. She stares at Thaddeus Stanton as if he were the muckiest of muck.

"My dear Miss Jenkins," Thaddeus says with what he obviously considers a great deal of charm. "Why the wrinkled brow?"

Anyanka Emmanuella Jenkins smiles thinly and not very convincingly. "A change of conversation would be nice."

Her somewhat abrupt words causes a surprised lull in conversation. Thaddeus rallies. "The lady is right, of course. Let us waste no more time on Mr. Pratt." Talk gradually returns to everyday matters—the latest societal gossip, the debate over ventilating the Met, the grisly murders in Whitechapel.

Eyes narrowed and hawkish, Anyanka watches Thaddeus Stanton's every move.

Her fingers stroke, absentmindedly, over an ornate pendant at the base of her throat.

The stagnant London night air presses against his feverish skin. William scrubs his eyes and trips over the cobblestones. "Bloody…watch where you're going!" William chokes out angrily as he bumps into several people. He quickly ditches the too-crowded main way and takes refuge in a dark alley to regain his composure.

"Fool!" William curses himself under his breath. He furiously pulls out the remains of his lovingly crafted poetry from his waistcoat and rips the parchment to shreds. If possible, William's heart breaks even further. He stares at the scraps of writing at his feet.

The woman of his dreams thought him beneath her. The world mocked his feelings and his poetry. All the tender parts of William feel bruised and exposed.

"God!" William cries, alone in the night. This was just too much.

"I wonder," a woman's fanciful voice sounds behind him. William jumps and turns to see a dark haired vision of beauty appear from the shadows. "What possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger..." The woman reaches out and swipes the wetness from beneath William's eyes. "To tears?" She whispers, face very close.

Very, very close. William squirms. A thief?

She found him to be dashing?

"Nothing," William says quickly, embarrassed by his overflowing emotions. "I wish to be alone."

"I don't think you do," the woman murmurs, eyes dark and hooded. She stares at him like a cat would a mouse. William begins to feel a little hunted.

"I do." William says, unnerved by her unwavering attention. "What could you possibly know of it?"

"I've seen you," she continues dreamily, eyes staring somehow through and beyond him. "A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength. His vision. His glory. That, and burning baby fish swimming all 'round your head." She bobs her hand in imitation of swimming fish and glides ever closer.

William's back hits a wall. Good Lord, this woman was insane. William's hands twitch with the effort to remain still and not pat his pockets to check for his coin.

"Th-that's quite close enough!" William stutters. "You won't have my purse, so off with you."

The woman smiles in a predatory manner. William flushes, feeling her eyes on him like a caress.

"Don't want your purse. Your wealth lies here," she touches his heart. "And here." She touches his temple. "In the spirit and imagination. You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine."

William's face goes slack. It was as if she'd plucked the words from his very soul.

The woman's dark eyes seem to vibrate and glow. "I see what you want. Something glowing, and glistening. Something…" her eyes trail to the side then upward. A triumphant smiles stretches her cold lips. _"Effulgent."_

William's nerves are screaming. Every part of him that has been saying _run_ is now saying _yes, yes, that's it exactly._

Cold fingers, tracing his cheek, familiarly. "Do you want it?" she asks. An impulsive deviance suffuses William. He doesn't know what she means, but it sounds beautiful. Far too beautiful for a world such as his own.

"Yes," he breathes reverently. "God, yes!"

The woman who could read his heart giggles strangely, deep in her throat. "Of course you do, my William. This is meant to be. My darling, sweet boy…"

What? Unease creeps along the edges of William's desperate longing. Her hand cups his chin firmly. William tries to pull away, but finds he can't break her grip. The woman smiles at him, sweet and mischievous.

"My own brave Galahad. My black knight." William watches in astonished horror as something cracks and the graceful lines of her face mar. A monster.

Her lips are against his throat, tearing and sucking, before William can take another breath.

 _Tonight, I die,_ William thinks dazedly. After a small part of him fusses over the thought of his poor mother finding him in such a position, William relaxes into the painful bite, feeling oddly at peace.

All at once, the woman rips away with an inhuman growl. William sinks down to the ground, knees wobbly.

The dark eyed woman backs away. Opposite her, a golden haired angel glows under the gas lamp's light, her features washed away.

Feeling as though he were witnessing a religious intervention, William sags to one side and tries to clear his spectacles of their fog.

Red drips from the dark woman's mouth. William's blood.

His stomach turns and William leans over as his stomach violently rejects what little supper he had taken earlier.

Neither unearthly woman seems to notice.

"Oh, your face! Your face!" The golden girl exclaims, voice high and dramatic. "Something's wrong with your face!"

The dark one shakes her head, hair whipping like snakes. "Naughty Slayer, playing games. The stars melt back from the beetles in your brain. Sparks, everywhere you tread. You'll burn someone if you don't take a care."

Long straight skirts rustling against the ground, the slim blonde woman strides into the dark with William and the woman who nearly killed him. He wants to shout at her to warn her away from the danger, but his throat is closed tight with fear.

"As it so happens, I _don't_ care." The newcomer raises her arm up as if to strike. William sees, of all things, a wooden stake in her clenched fist.

Oh, dear. They were doomed.

With a crunch, the monster's face melts back into familiar shapes and contours. William blinks rapidly, half-wondering if he'd imagined the entire spectacle.

"He's mine," the menacing creature hisses.

The golden girl holds her ground with the fiercest expression William's ever seen on a face.

"Not while I'm around," she utters, low and adamant.

Almost too fast to follow, the dark beauty lunges.

The golden girl spins to the side, elbows out, clocking her in the face and sending her stumbling. She then kicks out beneath her dark skirts so solidly that William hears something crack in the temptress' body.

Undeterred, the monstrous woman returns the attack, slashing through the air with clawed fingers. William gapes as a bare-knuckle, down and dirty fight rages between the two up and down the alley. It's fast and it's viscous. The force of the blows can't possibly be significant between two ladies, but each hit seems remarkably solid.

A thwarted punch by the golden girl reduces a nearby wooden support to kindling.

William feels quite dizzy. He touches his stinging throat and finds it to be wet. Inspection of his fingers reveals fresh blood.

"Ow," William says, as if surprised. In the background, the dark haired woman smashes a crate over the other's head. In retaliation, the golden girl strikes out with her fists, breaking the other woman's nose in a gruesome smear of blood and cartilage.

William fights to take even breaths, so as not to faint. He has never seen gore of this nature, this brawling, stinking fight.

Howling like a banshee, William's would-be killer runs off into the night, her figure swallowed up by the fog. With clear hesitation, his rescuer lets the other go and approaches him briskly.

"Are you all right?" She crouches down next to him. William cannot summon words. The golden girl is younger than he thought, just past marrying age. Perhaps eighteen years, give or take. Her beauty is youthful, but her eyes are old. Golden locks half-pinned back leave her sparkling green eyes free to shine. Her stubborn chin is held firm.

Blood splatters across her wrist-length white blouse. She seems unbothered by this fact.

William realizes that this valkerie of a woman before him is _speaking to him._

"I-I beg your pardon?" William gasps. His rescuer's mouth flattens, but her eyes are compassionate.

"I said, did you drink from her?"

"Drink? I—there was no drinking here. She was…her face…she bit me! Like an animal!" And he had accepted it. Darkness threatens to overwhelm him, but William grips tightly to awareness. What on earth was he thinking?

He hadn't been. Was his life really so terrible that death in the arms of a monstrous siren was preferable to facing the coming morning?

The echo of his peers' laughter rings in William's ears.

Well, yes. But he could have at least put up a decent struggle. There were people depending on him, after all.

William's brain rattles in his skull as the girl shakes him. He opens his eyes. When had they closed? The beauty's face is twisted in a grimace. No polite expression or façade to be seen.

"…back to my…treat your wounds." The girl's words fade in and out of William's hearing.

He is helpless to do anything but try to get his feet under him as the girl hauls him up. Her arm wraps around his waist.

William's stomach flip flops. The heat and strength of her arm sinks through his waistcoat and into his touch-starved skin.

As if being carried, William nearly floats alongside the incredible girl, down the cobblestone road, around twists and turns and into a quiet residential area.

Though his vision threatens to black out, William clings to consciousness. The girl's arm never wavers from him.

He is determined not to miss a moment.


	2. Chapter 2

Buffy the Victorian Slayer Chapter Two

* * *

William's vision fades in and out. He feels very cold. He leans more heavily against his warm rescuer. The world spins and his center of balance goes with it.

When William's eyes flutter open again, he's horizontal in front of a blazing fireplace. Voices murmur agitatedly in the background. He finds it difficult to make out the exact words over the ringing in his ears.

"…a matter of urgency, Giles!"

"You couldn't have possibly known—"

"I felt it in my dream. I hadn't the time to…"

William lets his head roll to the side. An older gentleman paces around the room, hands gesturing wildly. The incredible young woman stands firm before him, arms folded across her bloodstained front.

"…if someone had seen you, Elizabeth…"

"No one did."

"Is that so? And just who is this, then?"

Both turn to William at the same time.

William's mouth is quite dry. He wants to ask for a drink, but everything blurs and goes black again.

The next time William wakes, the fire is banked low and he is snug under warm blankets.

Joints creaking in protest, William manages to sit up. Spots dance in front of his eyes. He feels himself blink, but sees no change. Eyes closed, there is darkness. Eyes open-darkness, still. William sits that way for a few minutes, deliberately blinking and trying to keep calm. Slowly, his vision returns and the dizziness recedes.

His surroundings are thusly revealed. William is resting on an older sofa in a drawing room decorated in heavy browns and reds. His immediate impression of the home is that it belongs to a respectable, if outdated owner.

He is alone.

William drags himself to his feet, stiff and painful, like an old man. He staggers over to an ornate mirror on the wall.

William gasps. He looks a fright! His hair is mussed, and his face is pale as a ghost. Red stains his collar. With a wince, he carefully moves his collar to the side. A jagged gash seeps into a cloth bandage. William's brain feels like cotton. What on earth happened?

 _Do you want it?_ The devilish woman's voice echoes in persuasive tones through his mind. Her yellow eyes and animal face. A monster.

Impossible. Had to be.

William frowns and probes at his neck wound, little zings of pain radiating from it with every touch. Well, it certainly looks like he just survived a mauling.

It was a woman who approached him, but something else entirely that bit him. Something with teeth that belonged to no human. Fangs, more like.

William shudders. She had bitten him and sucked away at his blood. Hellish creature. He should have run the moment she cornered him. Foolish of him, to seek refuge in one of London's dark alleys. Cautionary tales existed for a reason.

William winces, suddenly remembering Cecily and the utter disaster of the dinner party. God in heaven. Perhaps if he draped himself upside down over the sofa, the blood would finish emptying from his body and spare him the humiliation of meeting the morrow…

"You're awake." The surprised tones of a young woman behind him has William executing an about-face.

"Oh! It's you!" William exclaims. He'd nearly convinced himself that the golden girl from earlier was a hallucination of some kind. Yet here she stood, with fresh dress and laughing eyes. Laughing? At him?

Flustered, William struggles to think of the next appropriate move. Behind the young woman, dawn's early light glows under the edges of the drapes.

An introduction? They were quite beyond the established etiquette guidelines by now. A young woman traveling alone, rescuing strangers by vanquishing her foe in a fist fight? It was the stuff of storybooks.

William clears his throat. "Pardon me, Miss…"

"Elizabeth Summers," she answers. And with that, William's Valkyrie has a name.

He shifts, nervously smoothing down his hair and tugging at his rumpled waistcoat. Good Lord. Where was his jacket?

"M-miss Summers. Mr. William Pratt, pleased to make your acquaintance." He bobs a hasty bow. With a wry twist of her lips, Elizabeth dips into a curtsey. She moves right along, much to his relief.

"Are you feeling all right? You survived a terrible encounter last night."

William's throat throbs at the reminder. "Yes. Much better. Thirsty, perhaps." He licks his dry lips. Elizabeth's mouth parts in understanding.

"Oh! Of course you are. G—Mr. Giles is preparing our morning tea just now. Please join us."

William follows Elizabeth into a dark wooded dining room. Strange, she almost seems more uncomfortable than William in formal settings. It is a marked contrast to her carefree manner from last night.

"Giles?" Elizabeth calls ahead. "He's awake." An older gentleman raises his head from where he sits at the dining room table. He seems familiar, though William knows they've never met before. William can only guess at the pair's relationship, but it seems they are related in some way.

The man known as Giles furrows his brow when he sees William. "Wonderful." The way he says the word makes William think the man means something rather opposite. William straightens.

"Mr. William Pratt, sir. I—"

"And I'm Rupert Giles. Sit, sit. We do not stand on ceremony here." Elizabeth, clearly biting back a smile, takes a seat at Rupert's elbow. She nods at the third chair for William to take.

William hesitates. He finds other gentleman's abrupt manner extremely off-putting.

Rupert looks directly at him. "Come on, man. We don't have all morning. Sit down so we can clear up this nasty business and send you on your way."

William sits hastily, squirming in discomfort. Elizabeth's sympathetic green eyes rest on him briefly. She turns to Rupert.

"Giles, kindness is a virtue."

"Or so they say." The older man mutters peevishly. He pours the tea and pushes full cups to both William and Elizabeth before filling his own.

"So _you_ have been known to say." Elizabeth parries. Her lips curve in a conspiring smile which she directs at William.

Rupert snorts, slopping his tea onto the table as he stirs it. "Only when I want you more amenable to my approach, my dear Elizabeth."

William is the very picture of confusion. Mr. Giles and Miss Elizabeth were treating him and the entire situation with the shocking informality. No one has mentioned the monster from earlier or Elizabeth's apparent fighting prowess. Neither, has an explanation been given as to how he arrived at his-presently unknown-location, nor is any context provided for his hosts. He is at a loss on how to proceed.

Something of this must be reflected on his face, because Elizabeth changes track. "Did you get a good look at your attacker, Mr. Pratt?"

"I—yes. She was quite close. She was—well. Perhaps I should save this for the constable."

"No!" Both Rupert and Elizabeth say. William leans back from the force in their voices. Rupert quells Elizabeth with a look, then continues. "And just what would you tell London's oblivious bobbies, anyway?"

William frowns. "The police deal with matters of crime. My attack should be reported."

Rupert rubs a hand over his brow. William notices a thin silver scar running down the man's forehead. Two shorter similar scars line either side of the long one, as if he'd been clawed by something razor sharp. "But what, exactly, will you say to them? A woman bit my throat?"

William fights back a full body shiver. "She did. She…drank my blood."

"Did you drink hers?"

"What? God, no!" Elizabeth had asked him the same question. How strange! William feels like Alice in Wonderland taking tea with the Mad Hatter and engaging in all sorts of insane conversation. He doesn't know why events occurred the way they did. He can't catch hold of the undercurrents, now. But there is one thing he knows with absolute certainty.

William faces Elizabeth. "Miss Summers, you saved my life. From the bottom of my heart—thank you."

Lips pressed together, Elizabeth says nothing. Her eyes are bright on his though, and William knows that for once he's said the correct thing.

"I think you're safe, then." Rupert says before he tips back his tea, finishing it all at once. He sets the cup down with a no-nonsense _clack._ "Mr. Pratt, your story will be considered sensational if not dismissed outright. The best thing you can do is to finish your tea and biscuits—" Rupert pushes a plate laden with breakfast edibles towards William. "—to help recover from your blood loss. Then, go on home. Avoid striking out on your own after dark. You should be fine." Rupert stands. He brushes his hands together with an air of completeness.

William puts down his tea. "Wait now, sir! That can't be all. Who, or w-what, was that woman? Miss Summers, you, you…" William hesitates. He knows full well how crazy all of this sounds. Rupert is staring down at him like William is a lunatic. But he lived through it! And Elizabeth witnessed it. William squares his shoulders. "Miss Summers, you fought off my attacker. You were so strong—"

Rupert Giles interrupts in such a severe tone of voice that something in William shrinks back. "You were seeing things. Very much longer in that alley and you wouldn't have lived to see morning. You can't trust what you think you saw."

William ignores him and stares beseechingly at Elizabeth. She stares back, green eyes solemn. Her gaze flickers over to Rupert, then away from both men.

Triumph fills William. "You know it's true. It's written all over your face." Behind Elizabeth, the dining cart is pushed up against the wall. Instead of dishes, a loaded crossbow rests on the top shelf. Unease tingles down his spine. Something occurs to William and he speaks without thinking. "He isn't keeping you here against your will, is he?" Elizabeth whips around.

"No! Of course not. Giles is like family—"

William is suddenly, violently hauled to his feet by the front of his shirt. Rupert's eyes glint dangerously through his spectacles. "That is quite enough. You will leave, Mr. Pratt, in the carriage provided. Your address has already been procured. If you know what's good for you, you will heed my advice and never speak of this matter again." Rupert drags William closer until they are nearly nose to nose. William feels his legs turn to jelly at the look in the other man's eye. "And if you ever insinuate such criminal behavior between myself and my charge again, I will have you locked up in a small box away from the sun for the rest of your God-given days."

"GILES!" Elizabeth exclaims. She interposes herself between them, shoving Rupert away, none-too-gently. Despite the strength William felt in the other man's grip, the older man stumbles back a pace or two. Elizabeth glares at her guardian with clear disapproval. "That's enough of _that._ I will walk Mr. Pratt to the door." Elizabeth catches hold of William's elbow and leads him out of the room.

Flabbergast by the behavior of all those around him, William lets Elizabeth guide him along in a daze until the front door looms before them. Elizabeth looks up at him, though it is a small difference in height. She bites her lip. "I apologize for Giles' rude behavior. He, ah…isn't a morning person."

Well. That was one way of putting it. William's hands are still shaking. He swallows, convulsively, against a still-dry throat. He'd barely sipped his tea. "N-no matter." Blast that stutter! Get it together, man. _She's looking right at you_. "Thank you again. For, for everything. But please, I wish to understand what happened." William pleads.

Elizabeth's shoulders droop the slightest bit from her perfect posture. "Believe me, Mr. Pratt. You really don't." If this is meant to warn William away, she's chosen the exact wrong thing to say. His curiosity, insatiable in regular times, rages inside at her cryptic remark. Elizabeth sucks in a quick breath. "I'm glad I could—that you're going to be all right. Consider this a new lease on life."

"Perhaps I will," William says, not exactly paying attention. His brain is already plotting how he can get to the bottom of this mystery. "Ah…good day to you, Miss Summers."

Elizabeth bids him goodbye. William exits the townhouse and meanders down the path, through the gate and to the street. A simple horse drawn carriage awaits. An equally bland driver stares down at William with hooded eyes and an iron face.

Curiouser and curiouser. William knows better than to try and question the driver. He has a feeling Mr. Giles may be watching him leave. The man did not seem prone to making idle threats. A chill touches the back of William's neck. Rupert Giles is not a man he would ever want to meet in a dark alley. William feels fortunate that it was Elizabeth and not her unpredictable guardian that found him last night.

Last night. And now it was morning. Oh! William's poor mother must be beside herself in worry over her only son's whereabouts. William's questions can wait. He needs to return home, to responsibility, and to his mother. He has no idea how to even begin to explain the night's events.

William stares out at the passing scenery, but doesn't register the sight. He has until the carriage reaches home to come up with something believable. William is not accustomed to lying to his mother, but he cannot imagine revealing the truth. Especially when William himself barely knows!

Wait, where the devil were they? William immediately refocuses on the streets outside the carriage. Not far from Hyde Park, really. This stands to reason, because the party William left prematurely was held mere blocks from the infamous park. In his condition last night, William couldn't have managed a far walk to safety.

Mental map firmly in place, William keeps a sharp eye out.

After all, William doesn't want to get lost on his return visit.


	3. Chapter 3

Buffy the Victorian Slayer Ch 3

William swallows down piping hot tea under the cook's watchful eye. By God, was he thirsty! He'd managed to duck the majority of staff and servants alike to clean up and change. He'd yet to see to his poor mother, who by all accounts, waited up for William all through the night.

Guilt surges through him again at the thought. Anne Pratt is three years now into her consumption and can't possibly spare the bedrest she just lost.

"All right now, sir?"

"Yes, yes." William says distractedly as he pushes away and makes his way to the drawing room.

William hesitates in the doorway. His mother is sitting in her usual spot on the deep green sofa, her hands folded as she stares out the window. Weak sunlight filters through to sketch rectangular patterns on the oriental carpet.

He must make some noise because his mother turns and gasps. "William! Oh, where have you been? I've been nearly out of my mind with worry!"

William hastens over to help his mother sit from where she had half-risen. "Please don't get up on my account, Mother. I'm quite all right." Her eyes rove over his face and she touches his neck where coat and collar do little to hide the bandage.

"William, what happened?"

What, indeed.

"I must emphasize that I am in good health and unharmed. Ah…on the whole." William finishes sheepishly.

"William I have been in agony imagining what could have happened to you. A message came late last night that you'd left the Stanton's in such a hurry that you forgot your overcoat, then never returned! When you did not come home, oh what went through my mind…"

William clears his throat. "Yes. Yes, I was attacked and injured in a minor way, but managed to escape. I came over quite dizzy and needed some time to get my bearings before coming home."

"Attacked!"

"Yes. Ruffians." William isn't a complete idiot. He's perfectly aware of how terrible he is at lying. He can only hope his mother doesn't catch on. "They were after my purse."

"But your neck! You're hurt. We must call Doctor Gull."

"Not necessary!" William protests, perhaps a bit too loudly. His mother leans back, blinking in surprise at his tone. "A small cut, from a blade at my throat. Already cleaned and bandaged. No need for further treatment."

"I would certainly feel better if—"

"Mother, please, I just want to put this whole unpleasant episode behind me." William pleads. For a moment he thinks she will press the point, but his mother accepts his wishes with a nod.

"You must be exhausted William. We'll push dinner back so that you can rest."

"That sounds wonderful. Thank you." It really did. William can't remember the last time he felt so physically exhausted. The thrill, the sheer adrenaline of the night. God, he's never felt so worn. Nor so alive. Tomorrow. He would track down Miss Summers tomorrow, first thing in the morning. For now, a hot meal and his own bed sounded absolutely heavenly.

Rupert wipes down a wicked blade with adept fingers at the head of the table while to his left, Elizabeth carves another wood shaving away from a half-formed stake. An ironic smile curls one side of the Slayer's mouth.

"I have to wonder," Elizabeth speaks to the silence dryly, "which encounter will haunt poor Mr. Pratt more in the years to come. His brush with death in the alley—" she pins her Watcher with a knowing look. "Or tea with you."

"Hilarious." Rupert grumbles. He sets the weapon down with care on an old cloth. Without facing her he continues, "Elizabeth, you cannot afford to be so careless."

This again? Her fault for bringing up Mr. William Pratt. She carves with frowning gusto. "Giles…"

"I couldn't be more serious, Elizabeth." Her Watcher catches her wrist. The stake hovers between them. Rupert's steely blue eyes fix upon her unwaveringly. "You must always, always, without fail, don your disguise before a night of slaying."

Elizabeth drops the stake to the table with a clatter. "Oh, certainly. Pants and boots, vest and jacket. My favorite evening wear."

"And much less conspicuous than an unattended warrior woman, I guarantee you."

"I've already told you, my dream—"

"—indicated urgent action, I know." Her Watcher's prematurely lined face darkens. "Use reason, Elizabeth. We both know you're capable of it. You may have saved Mr. Pratt, but at what cost? If you're outed, if you're compromised…there is only one of you, my dear. We can't lose you."

Elizabeth straightens her weapons and other odds and ends on the table with exaggerated care. "Yes. Only one of me. Compared to a thousand possible victims and a thousand, thousand demons."

Her tone verges on bitter, but mostly, she just sounds sad. Her numbers, after all, are modest. Rupert doesn't bother correcting her.

Elizabeth turns luminous green eyes on her Watcher. "Giles, I'm here to save people from what stalks the night. I can't start valuing my life over anyone else's."

"Why the bloody hell not? I certainly can and do. For instance, I'd let that crook, Travers, hang in a heartbeat if it meant sparing you. You can't tell me you don't feel the same."

Humor returns to Elizabeth's face. "Oh, Giles."

"Honestly, now. If you were ever confronted with the choice between living or dying for a fool on the Council, I hope to god you'd choose life, Elizabeth."

"A fool like you?"

Something moves behind Rupert's eyes. "Especially a fool like me."

She shakes her head. "Something tells me this isn't the message you're meant to teach me."

Rupert scoffs. "Then they shouldn't have appointed me your Watcher." Their gazes part again. They've both guessed, after all, why the black sheep of the Council was assigned to the black sheep amongst Slayers.

Assured mutual destruction.

"Damn them anyway." Rupert continues, as he glares out the window.

"I doubt I could be as cold as that, to them or to you." Elizabeth says. "And I certainly couldn't let an innocent be devoured either." She takes in her Watcher's tense shoulders. "I promise to dress appropriately in the future."

"See that you do."

This time the silence is companionable. Rupert rubs his chin, deep in thought. "You plan to sweep out the nest by that workhouse tonight?"

Elizabeth nods. "Yes. There were only four or so within, by my count."

Rupert leans in, head tucked in that familiar conspiring way. The exact nature of the conspiracy, Elizabeth is never sure. "Are you all right to go at it alone? I have other business that needs attending this evening."

"Of course."

"Very good, then. I shall return before dawn."

Elizabeth watches Rupert rise and leave the room, his mind clearly elsewhere. He really couldn't be more unlike Merrick, God rest his soul. Her first Watcher's kind face and torn, bloody throat flashes through Elizabeth's mind. The poor man may have been one of the Council's "finest", but his loyalty and courage in the end would forever be remembered by Elizabeth.

She tips her head to better see down the hall as Watcher number two disappears into his dark and private study to do dark and private things.

Courageous and loyal, yes. But Rupert Giles is a different breed, altogether.

Then again, so is Elizabeth.

Night's dark fingers claw the evening sky but below smoggy clouds, London is already in shadow.

Drusilla the Mad sways in place as she hums to herself. Across the cobblestone street, the Pratt residence lies just beyond a black gate.

Gates pose no problem for the likes of Drusilla. Entryways do. As do Slayers.

The vampiress pouts and touches the still-healing bridge of her nose.

"Silly Slayer. He's not yours to save." A dreamy smile stretches the dead woman's lips. "I save him. All the stars say so." Her eyes drift shut as the buzzing-singing in her brain tingles her scalp.

Drusilla laughs, a high, breathy sound. Her dark eyes snap open at the same time the front door to William's home does.

There he is. William, conferring with a messenger. Shortly thereafter, William sends the boy away and disappears into the sanctity of his home.

"All the stars say so," Drusilla repeats to herself. "So it must be. Will God not send me a son of my own? A beautiful lover-knight for the ages?" She clenches lace gloved hands. Her gaze fixes ahead, miles away. "Have I not been a good girl? Daddy said...Daddy said..." She trails off as the boy gets closer to her.

Drusilla draws herself up, mind lingering in the present once more, and tips her chin a fraction.

The young man touches his cap to her in greeting.

"Boy," Drusilla whispers. "Come here, please."

The young thing hesitates, then drifts closer. "Yes, ma'am? Can I be of assistance?"

Drusilla's hypnotic eyes and sotto voice draw him in. "Yes, darling morsel. Yes, yes, yes."

Eyes vacant and pliant, the boy echoes her. "Yes, yes, yes."

"When does our William leave next?"

"This evening for a short time. Then again in the morning for a longer time."

Drusilla's teeth glint like knives in the twilight. "And his mother?"

"Home. She's been ill." The boy speaks in a monotone.

"Is that so?" Drusilla murmurs. She pets the scrawny thing. "I'd like you to introduce us. After all, Mrs. Anne Pratt will be like my own mummy soon. Once I have her boy. We'll be family. Only polite to meet the mother-in-law."

The boy nods mechanically. "Yes. Only polite."


	4. Chapter 4

Sleep is elusive for William, despite him feeling entirely worn out. But every time William closes his eyes, images of that monstrous woman's twisted face and bared fangs flits through his mind.

And of Miss Summers, leveling a blow that destroyed a solid wooden beam.

The damning offer.

Do you want it? she'd said. What had that dark siren been talking about? What was it? What was she going to give him?

Questions, questions, and more questions.

The mystery stews in William's brain, leaving him awake in his bed far later than he thought possible given his blood-spent exhaustion.

But morning does come at last.

William dresses and downs his breakfast quickly and efficiently. Excitement builds, sparking life through his limbs and forcing him to see the world through new eyes.

All around him, the familiar old rooms seem dark and small. Had the drapes always hung so heavy against the sun? Had the air always tasted so still and stale?

William flutters about, inconveniencing the maid as he readjusts window coverings, table settings, the candle holders on the mantle. When had these items last been disturbed? Good God, if their home wasn't a mausoleum!

In his wake, Margaret dusts and cleans and casts a concerned eye on him as she surreptitiously fixes William's spontaneous reorganization. She probably thinks him mad.

William finds he doesn't care. It is a new day, full of new possibilities. Today, he chases a mystery. Today, he returns to his rescuer's residence, against the wishes of a potentially unscrupulous man, where he will speak again to Miss Summers.

William is anxious to leave the house, but he is still a creature of habit. He refuses to go anywhere until he has greeted his mother.

Still early, too early. William paces in front of the grandfather clock. He'd risen and been ready for the day far ahead of his mother. But she should be down any moment now-

"William dear. What has you in such a stir?" Anne asks as she descends the stairs. She comes closer and lifts her hand to her son's cheek. "Why, you're flushed! Are you feeling quite all right?"

"Never better," William assures her. "I have much to do today, Mother. I imagine I will be out of the house for a good while. I merely wanted to wish you a pleasant morning before my departure."

"Yes, well thank you. I suppose you will tell me all about your engagements at dinner this evening." Anne watches William pace around, haphazardly picking things up and setting them down again.

"Oh! My overcoat. Where did Simon leave it?"

"He never brought it back," Anne peers at her son. "A caller came by last night for you, William. I happened to still be awake and thought it might be Simon returning with your belongings from the Stanton's. I instead met a young lady asking after your health."

William nearly trips over his own feet. "A caller for me? A young lady?" William automatically fidgets and tugs his collar in place. "What was her business here?"

A slight wrinkle forms across Anne's brow. "To inquire if you had recovered from your ordeal. She was a rather odd little creature. Kind of her to look in on you, I suppose." Anne's tone changes imperceptibly. "You never mentioned a woman, William."

William's heart skips a beat. "Our meeting was brief." He can't imagine why Elizabeth would come to see him. William kicks himself for the missed opportunity. "Was I home for this visit? Why wasn't I informed until now?"

"Oh, you were sleeping. I wasn't about to let you be disturbed. You needed the rest." Anne settles herself in a chair and begins to sift through the morning post. "I'm afraid I wasn't able to gather much in the way of information from Miss Drusilla. Only her first name, as a matter of fact."

"Miss Drusilla?" William repeats in confusion.

Anne looks up. "Yes. Wasn't she the woman who assisted you the other night?"

A sudden chill creeps over William's flesh. "What did she look like? Please, Mother," William cuts off her protestation, even as he avoids her question. "This is important."

Anne's eyes go distant in memory. "Frail. Long dark hair and frightful dark eyes. As I said, I didn't get much of an introduction from her. If I had to guess from her appearance, she seemed to be a lady of some fortune. Dark dress, like she was in mourning." Anne pauses, seeing her son's face drain of its lively color. "What's the matter?"

"Did she do anything to you? Say anything to you?" William feels fear clog his throat. His mother looks all right, no injuries to be seen. But if that devil woman had harmed her, if she'd lain one finger on her…!

"Do anything? William, what would she have done?"

"Mother," his voice has choked into a whisper. "I don't want to alarm you, but I believe that woman may have been...been an associate of the ruffians who assaulted me. You're not hurt?"

"No." Anne looks positively taken aback. "Good heavens. She must have followed you home." Anne shakes her head. "I knew there was something strange about that woman. A gypsy, perhaps."

William grimaces. If only things were that simple.

"She spoke in the oddest way," Anne says, almost to herself.

"Why? What did she say?"

His mother remains calm despite William's urgent tone. He wonders what she thinks of all this. "It wasn't so much what she said as how she said it. She rambled quite a bit. Asked after you, like I said, and-that's right." Anne frowns slightly. "She told me she'd heard all about me and wanted to meet me in person. Did you converse with her about us, William?"

William's stomach feels tight and sick. "Not at all."

"Well. She knew me by name. Exceedingly strange!"

William shivers. What could that creature possibly want from his mother? "Perhaps...perhaps this Drusilla ferreted out your name through another source."

Anne pats her skirts decisively. "I daresay she did. We'll have to contact the authorities immediately."

William suddenly understands Rupert and Elizabeth's haste in dissuading him from taking this very same action the previous day. What on earth could the police do to protect his mother from a fanged monster?

"I'll handle this, Mother. It's my fault entirely that this woman even made it to our door." William reaches out to grasp Anne's hands, eyes imploring. "Whatever you do, keep the doors locked. Answer it for no one today, I beg you. We cannot be too cautious in this matter."

After securing his mother's word to not let anyone through the door she did not recognize, William sets out for Elizabeth's residence. What before had been a lark and a curiosity was suddenly a matter of life or death.

One thing, for the devil woman to nearly steal William's life. But no one messes with his family.

Elizabeth gives up trying to tie off her bandage one-handed and rises to investigate who'd come to their door.

She'd been hoping it was her Watcher finally arriving home, but Giles never knocked nor required their loyal servant, Mary, to speak with him at such length.

Elizabeth steps softly and leans her head against the corner around which she can hear Mary's attempts to send someone away.

"...Mr. Giles, or Miss Summers. They know who I am. Please tell me, are either of them home?"

Elizabeth starts, recognizing the voice of their visitor. William Pratt. She winces. She can already hear Giles' I told you so. Best to go shoo the man off before her erstwhile Watcher could return and discover William here again.

Elizabeth grabs up a shawl to cover her partially bandaged arm then strides out to the entryway.

Mary glances over one matronly shoulder from her post at the door. "Apologies, Miss. He won't leave."

Elizabeth purses her lips. "That's all right, Mary. I gather that Mr. Pratt can be the stubborn sort."

On the stoop, dressed smartly in blues and golds, is a much more put together man than the one Elizabeth saved two evenings ago. William's face colors. "I'm terribly sorry to come on so strong, but there's been trouble. I'm in dire need of your help."

Elizabeth moves closer to the sunlit doorway. "Trouble?" she asks, dubiously. "What sort of trouble?"

"The sort of trouble that found me in that alley!" William bursts out. He looks frantic. "I'm afraid it followed me home."

This time, when Mary exchanges looks with Elizabeth, her eyes are sympathetic. Not so long ago, really, that it was Mary on the stoop making a similar appeal. Part of Mary's value as an employee: a grateful success story, not a Council spy.

"It's all right," Elizabeth says to her now. "Go on Mary." The woman nods and retreats using as much discretion as she does with every other task this household requires of her. Clever woman, too. She leaves the front door wide open.

Elizabeth regards William silently. He hovers. "May I come in?" He finally asks, voice full of anxiety.

Elizabeth nods, an eye on the sun streaming in behind him. William enters without difficulty and shuts the door firmly. He continues, as though they'd been in the middle of a conversation. Despite herself, Elizabeth feels a smile tug at her mouth. There is something endearing about William's straightforward energy and intent.

She's glad to not have to slay him.

"I wasn't there when it happened, of course, so I can only recount this tale second hand-" William breaks off, eyes wide on Elizabeth's arm. She glances down.

Her shawl isn't doing a great job of hiding her injury. William comes closer and reaches out as if to touch her hand. "You're hurt!"

Elizabeth tucks her arm against her body. William freezes, a sorry sort of expression on his face. "It's just a scratch, nothing to fuss over," she says. The tail ends of the bandage hang loosely around her wrist. "I'm in need of another pair of hands is all, to finish wrapping this up."

She'd naturally meant she was waiting for Mary or Giles' help, but William seems to take her words as tacit permission. "Oh! Allow me." They move a short distance to a place they can sit and William catches the end of the bandage and finishes winding it around her arm. With utmost concentration, he carefully secures it in place. Blood seeps through, darkening the white cloth.

He lifts concerned blue eyes to hers. "You've had trouble of your own."

Elizabeth's skin tingles from William's gentle touch. "Always," she says before she can edit herself. Seeing his eyebrows draw down together, Elizabeth casts about for a subject change. "You're quite a natural. At bandaging, I mean. Good bedside manner, Mr. Pratt. You wouldn't happen to be a doctor, would you?"

Startled, William wags his head in the negative. "Oh no! I've just had some practice in caring for others. In sickness and in health, you know."

Ah. "Your wife is lucky to have such an attentive husband." A weird expression takes over William's face. Elizabeth shifts in her chair. Had that been too forward or scandalous to say? It's been so long since she's had a proper conversation with someone outside of her world. Elizabeth no longer has the social sensitivity she once easily wielded.

"No, never been married," William mutters, sounding as if he were admitting to a cardinal sin. "I was actually referring to my mother. Her health is fragile. I'm all she has."

"I see." Elizabeth says, mind turning things over. William's eyes dart around the room in an effort to not stare at her injured arm. She can feel the curiosity burning in him.

"What happened?"

"It's a long story," Elizabeth says. Three fledgling vampires, one dagger. Not so long after all. "Tell me about your trouble."

William does. Unease winds through Elizabeth as his story unfolds. "You were home when this Drusilla came to call?"

"Yes."

"But you never saw her."

William grows frustrated. "No, but I'm certainly not making this up."

Elizabeth puts her hand out to ward him off. "Not at all what I meant. I'm just trying to put the pieces together." She frowns. "Think carefully, Mr. Pratt. Did your mother invite her inside? Did she cross over the threshold?"

William shakes his head. "I don't believe she was there long enough for a proper visit. But I can't be sure. I was asleep, my mother was the only one to speak with her."

"And your mother seemed all right this morning? Normal color, normal behavior?"

She sees William's shoulders relax. This must be a familiar line of questioning for him. "She seemed perfectly normal."

Elizabeth isn't so convinced. Her eyes unfocus somewhere over William's shoulder. "Well, it seems you'll get your wish after all."

With a curious tilt of his head, William says, "What wish?"

"To understand exactly what's going on here," Elizabeth finishes. She stands abruptly. "We ought to wait for Giles to help explain."

William stands with her. "Whatever for?"

She grimaces. "To lend credence to my story. It's not for the faint of heart, nor is it easily believable. You aren't the first to be told, you see. I've found having a respectable, educated man like Mr. Giles present helps things along."

Elizabeth knows she's been annoyingly evasive so it's a surprise when William stares her down, both earnest and solemn.

"I'll believe you," he says, very simply.

Gratitude settles warmly in her chest, even as dread grips her heart. Elizabeth does not want to be responsible for dragging this man into the dark world she inhabits. Problem is, he was already involved. A failed vampire attack is one thing. Being stalked by the same vampire...that was another matter entirely.

Elizabeth regards him from under lowered lashes. "What do you know about vampires?"

William's eyes widen, but he doesn't laugh or scoff. "A fairytale." He shrugs. "John William Polidori?"

"Who?" Elizabeth asks, confusion coloring her voice.

A bookish excitement lights William's eyes, "Author. He wrote The Vampyre. Never read it personally, but I've heard enough about it to know its summation. Dark and fantastic material. Dead man walking, drinking the blood of his victims."

Elizabeth waits him out.

His mouth parts. "You think Miss Drusilla is a vampire?"

"I know she is. You'll come to see it as well. You were under her fangs. What did you think that was about? " Elizabeth prepares herself for a display of sputtering disbelief and dismissal-the usual response-but William just goes quiet and thoughtful.

"I didn't know what to think," he says. "That's why I came back."

Elizabeth eyes him. "I thought you came back for our help."

Sheepishly, William nods. "That part came after my decision to return."

"Yes. I noticed you remembered our address easily enough. I'm surprised you dared come back after the way Giles treated you."

William straightens. "I'm not easily scared away." Elizabeth hears a great deal of bravado in that statement, but lets it pass. "Not by harsh words, or fanged women, or even your guardian, Miss Summers." Elizabeth laughs, unable to help herself, at the order of his "impossible" fears.

William flinches back from her laughter, but hearing no meanness in it, he cautiously smiles. "Vampires! What an extraordinary notion. If they're really out there, why haven't people been warned?"

Still smiling, Elizabeth gestures emphatically. "There are warnings. In the folk tales and stories people write. The truth is suppressed, but it is out there. It would certainly make my job easier if people took the stories seriously and prepared themselves, but this is the way it's been-for centuries to hear tell of it."

She sees William sort through that bundle of information. "Your job?" he asks.

Drat. She hadn't meant to let that part slip. Oh, well. He had already seen her fighting abilities. Elizabeth could tell Giles' efforts to redirect William were in vain. The man obviously remembered her from the alley.

"I keep people safe," Elizabeth says. William's eyes go soft.

"I can attest to that, can't I? What you did for me the other night...that wasn't the first time you had, had…"

"Beaten off an undead attacker? No." Elizabeth says with some amusement.

"Undead! Good Lord." William presses a closed fist to his mouth. "She bit me."

"She did." Elizabeth wonders if he has an inkling of what she suspects Drusilla's intentions were that night.

William lifts his eyes back to hers. Loose brown hair flops as he shakes his head. "In order to kill me? To…" he visibly swallows, looking uncomfortable. "To eat me?"

"Those two results often go hand in hand," Elizabeth agrees. "But I have to wonder if she had another purpose. It isn't unheard of, a vampire trailing a specific victim home, but it should put you on the alert. You were right to seek help."

"What other purpose could there be?" William asks.

Elizabeth hesitates. "To make you like her. She may want to turn you into a vampire." William goes frightfully pale. Really, he'd been handling this too well. Elizabeth knows what must come next.

Panic and, perhaps, grief. Saying goodbye to the way the world was. Being forever burdened with the knowledge of what haunts the night, knowledge that must so often be borne alone. The destruction of beliefs and biases about the simple nature of night and of death.

These are not easy concepts to struggle with. Years later in the thick of it, and Elizabeth-the Slayer!-can still be shocked and horrified by the state of this dark world. She has nothing but compassion for the newly initiated.

"Something glowing and glistening." William seems to be speaking to himself. He sounds heartbroken. His face screws up. "Effulgent," he says, bitterly.

"What's that?"

William's shoulders hunch slightly. "Nothing, really. Just some poor word choice. A vampire's view of the world." He says 'vampire' like he's testing it out.

Elizabeth isn't sure what effulgent means, but she gets the idea. "Vampires don't notice their inherent monstrosity. They love the way they are and see nothing wrong with the murder and mayhem they leave behind." She quirks a brow. "Did she give you a sales pitch?"

William jerks his head up. "My mother! You asked after her health and I thought...but you meant to ask if she'd been made into a monster." He looks horrified. "I don't know what to do, what to look for. God! Could she be-"

"Unlikely," Elizabeth reassures. "You seem close. I think you would have noticed a fundamental change if there'd been one. Giles or I can certainly investigate further. Another important matter," Elizabeth hears the door, but continues. "There are some natural protections against vampires. The home barrier is a major one. A vampire cannot enter a home without strict verbal invitation from a member of the household. We need to find out if your mother let this vampire in."

William twists his hands together. "She very well might have!"

He is so distraught, Elizabeth can't help but to reach over and place a comforting hand on his arm.

"What the devil is going on here?"

Elizabeth and William jerk apart guiltily. Rupert stands in the doorway, hat in hand, looking disheveled and suspicious. He glares at William. "You, sir, do not seem receptive to subtlety. I warned you-"

"Giles, he's being stalked by the vampire, Drusilla, who attacked him previously. I fear she has taken an unhealthy interest in Mr. Pratt and his family."

Rupert's eyes are cold and hard on William. "Vampires. Odd word to be bandying about this time of the morning."

Elizabeth sounds exasperated. "Giles, please. I've just begun explaining. Don't confuse him. He has the right to know how to defend himself."

"Right. If he's telling the truth. You're certain this isn't a tall tale, concocted to pry at our secrets?"

William stiffens his spine. "Miss Summers tells me she is in the business of saving people. I do hope you're in no way involved in the process."

"Stop, both of you!" Elizabeth frowns at Rupert. "I have a good sense for these things, Giles. I don't think Mr. Pratt has a deceitful bone in his body." She turns to William. "Giles is invaluable to the process. He only tries to look out for me, he isn't always so cross."

Rupert tosses his hat and coat down, one hand reaching to rub distractedly at his opposite arm. "Elizabeth, you didn't."

She drops her eyes. "I didn't mean to."

"You told him about slaying?" Rupert throws both hands in the air then falls into a chair. "A perfectly horrible beginning to a perfectly horrible day."

"Perhaps if you came home and slept once in awhile, your days wouldn't begin so atrociously." Elizabeth chastises.

"Slaying?" William asks. "Is that how you refer to fighting vampires?"

"See! He remembers the alley." Elizabeth says.

Rupert puts a hand over his face. His fingertips are blackened with some sooty material. He smells of sulphur. William wrinkles his nose, obviously noticing. Elizabeth shakes her head at him, warning away further inquiry.

"His mother may have unknowingly invited this vampire into their home," Elizabeth adds meaningfully. "Perhaps Jenny can join us in securing the house once more."

Rupert sighs, tension draining from his limbs. "Not necessary, I can do the spell on my own. You'll need to stop by Osbourne's Apothecary for more ingredients though." Rupert squints at William. "Leave Mr. Pratt to me."

William looks nervous, and rightfully so. Elizabeth nips this idea in the bud. "Thank you for your offer to explain further, Giles, but I think I'll take Mr. Pratt with me."

Rupert grips his own bicep tightly. "This isn't over."

"We'll talk later," Elizabeth promises. "Do you have a list made up?"

"She won't need one," Rupert says. He levels a stare at William. "It goes without saying, that everything you've learned here today must remain an absolute secret."

William nods quickly. "Of course. Honestly sir, who would I tell? I'd be thrown into Bedlam for even trying to speak of these things."

Rupert's lip curls up and he smiles for the first time since entering the room. "I suppose you could be." The prospect, coming from Elizabeth's guardian, sounds entirely too cheerful.

"Goodbye, Giles." Elizabeth indicates with a jerk of her chin for William to follow her.

Without further ado, the unlikely pair exits the little house, leaving Rupert Giles to roll up his sleeve and dig his fingers into the burning mark tattooed on his upper arm.


	5. Chapter 5

Buffy the Victorian Slayer Chapter 5

Disclaimer still applies. Thanks for reading.

* * *

It irks William, how relieved he is to be led from Rupert Giles' presence.

 _He doesn't intimidate me in the slightest,_ William tells himself again and again. He tries to engage Elizabeth in conversation about her strange and mercurial guardian, but she graciously deflects him at every turn. William concedes defeat on the matter. Instead, he grows quiet as Elizabeth leads them deeper and deeper into the east end of London.

They travel by coach, then by rail. It is a novel experience for William to be in the position to offer his hand to a lady and help her down to the grimy streets. Well, it is novel for his companion to accept his hand. All too often, whilst traveling, William has been daintily spurned by a lady not meeting his eye, or by somehow not seeing his offered hand. One woman went so far as to cast about for another gentleman to assist her in order to avoid William.

These are the things that cause William to wonder if he exudes some sort of disgusting aura. Perhaps some special sense exists in women that allows them to peer under his skin only to cause them to shy away when they find there is something unspeakably wrong with him. Something unspoken to William, anyway. It seemed that ladies could share their secret discovery with anyone and everyone who wasn't William. What else could explain the whispers at parties that only ended when he drew near?

William's bitter thoughts dissipate as Elizabeth begins a lively description of their surroundings. She subtly points out interesting landmarks and people with commentary that makes William smile.

"Cranky Mr. Cravitz owns the bakery. As you might imagine, Dunbar's gets much more business even though his baked goods aren't half as good…"

"See the scarred walls, just there? _Four_ carriages crashed together on an overly foggy evening. It was so terrible, and the death toll so high, carriage drivers won't even go down this side of the road anymore, out of fear or respect, it's hard to say."

William fights to keep the surprise off his face. Elizabeth seemed a lady of some means. Exactly how well acquainted could she be with this neighborhood?

He doesn't often come to this part of town, and hardly ever dares to venture out on foot, but Elizabeth seems very at home here. She confidently guides him past vendors hawking their wares and shops whose colors are dulled with a layer of soot. Elizabeth greets the begging homeless by name and introduces him to a frighteningly toothless man called Doolie, who spits on the ground and presses a wilted flower into Elizabeth's hand. She waves to him as they continue on, tucking the bud behind her ear.

William's new philosophy is this: nothing makes sense, so nothing can surprise him. He drifts along by Elizabeth's side, dreamlike and at the same time, so very aware of his breath, his skin, the heat of the sun, the stench of the streets, the light in Elizabeth's smile. Was this real?

"Forgive me for meandering, I haven't come by this road in some time." Elizabeth glances up at him from under her lashes, suddenly shy. "This seems like it mightn't be the sort of outing you're accustomed to."

"I'm quite all right," William finds that as he says this, it's actually true.

"I'm glad for it," Elizabeth says. "Ah, here we are."

They slow as they reach a wooden painted sign declaring, _Osbourne's Apothecary._

William holds the door for Elizabeth and she graces him with a smile before entering the warm shop. He follows her inside. William feels his nose twitch in reaction to the aromatic assault on his senses. From the sickly sweet and sharp smelling spices to the bitter and pungent herbs, the first step into the shop is a dizzying adjustment.

"Horrible!" A loud woman belches. "Open a window, Madame. This is just too much!"

"My apologies, Mrs. Oldridge!" A surprisingly young lady with fiery red hair dashes over to crack open a dusty window. "I just finished grinding a new batch of herbs—"

"Oh, shut your sauce box," Mrs. Oldridge grumbles. "I'll return when the air isn't quite so hazardous to my health!"

William steps aside to let the unpleasant patron pass, only to nearly asphyxiate when Elizabeth presses back into him in her haste to do the same. William feels heat creep up past his collar the moment her body touches his. He quickly looks around for a place to move a polite distance away, but the shop is crowded with other bustling bodies and he finds no escape.

Six heartbeats later, Elizabeth steps forward and William can breathe again.

"Pardon me," Elizabeth says to him, like an afterthought. She pushes forward without further ado and rises to her tiptoes to see above the heads of the counter's front line. The move lifts the hem of her skirt a scant bit off the ground and William's eyes drift down to the heels of Elizabeth's shoes.

It strikes him like a damning thunderbolt from on high. William realizes what he's done and snaps his gaze over to the wall.

Elizabeth, oblivious, succeeds in catching the red head's attention. The other woman beams and rounds the counter to embrace Elizabeth.

The ladies titter, heads bent together, Elizabeth at last resembling a familiar figure of society. Soon enough, Elizabeth introduces him.

"Willow, this is William Pratt, a recent acquaintance of my family." Elizabeth's eyes sparkle warmly when they meet his and William feels something in his chest relax. "Mr. Pratt, may I introduce you to the greatest apothecary in all of London, Mrs. Willow Rosenburg Osbourne."

William grasps Willow's hand in greeting. Willow pats their clasped hand. A fine purple-grey dust poofs up as she does. "Oops!" Willow says with a flustered laugh. "Very sorry about that Mr. Pratt."

"Charmed," William says, and he is.

Willow Osbourne's forest green dress is stitched with a black brocade pattern that makes no sense, even to William's fashion-blind eyes. A wide canvas belt loops around her slim waist, filled with odds and ends—including a bundle of brightly colored feathers-tied haphazardly to her person. Willow herself clashes in the most oddly charming way. Her purpose and nervousness, her clothing and her workplace. A chemist dressed with woodsy whimsy.

A strange and fitting companion for the mysterious Miss Elizabeth Summers.

Already, two customers clamor for her attention. Willow raises her hand to them then says apologetically to Elizabeth and William, "You're welcome to the storeroom while you wait."

Elizabeth nods and leads the way to the back where the noise level drops significantly. William relaxes further. The crushing crowd had bothered him. William indicates the two chairs and table, evidently meant for inventorying, behind a wall of crated merchandise.

"Oh, fantastic idea!" Elizabeth exclaims. She takes her seat with gusto and fans herself. "Hot isn't it? Even in the dead of winter, with this shop's revolving door of customers, it's hot here. They keep the fires burning all the time for different medicinal purposes, you know."

William didn't know. What Dr. Hull didn't provide himself on house calls, the servants picked up from shops such as this. William rarely had the occasion to linger in an apothecary; he certainly would not normally patron one from the east end.

"I…yes." William says awkwardly. Elizabeth bubbles on, green eyes alight.

"Willow and her husband Daniel Osbourne run this shop together with their assistant Jenny. Jenny and Giles are long-time—" Elizabeth cuts herself off, flushing. "Well, nevermind about that. Anyhow, these are good and trustworthy people to know, especially under your present circumstances, Mr. Pratt. I trust Willow and Oz with my life."

That was a sobering reminder. William nods attentively. Willow and Oz. Trusted with Elizabeth's life. Good to know now that William was…what? Being hunted by a vampire?

Logic scatters and the beginnings of panic creep in once more. "My present circumstances?" William says. "Do you mean to say that Mr. and Mrs. Osbourne…?"

Elizabeth nods. "They know all about it. I wouldn't be surprised if Willow found out the truth of this life before even I. She has dabbled in the mystic arts for quite some time. Running this apothecary is an extension of her natural talent."

As usual, William feels he has missed the plot. "Mystic arts? Are you referring to pharmacy?" It would certainly be an antiquated referral. Long gone were the days of the witch doctors and medicine women. An apothecary may seem to yield magical results, but _mystic arts?_

Elizabeth winces, but there is no time for further discussion before Willow is with them once more.

William stands and offers his seat to Willow.

"Why, thank you, kind sir." Willow's cheeks dimple slightly with her smile. "Not very many chairs back here, I'm afraid. Can you make do with a crate?"

"I believe I can manage," William says. Spying an empty upturned box across the storeroom, William sets out to bring it over. He bends slightly at the waist and grabs hold.

"Allow me," a quiet baritone voice startles William into straightening his spine in a hurry. A wiry young man with calm features and observant eyes nods to William. Without discussion, the two men carry the long crate back.

As they approach, Miss Elizabeth and Miss Willow break off their earnest discussion.

"Oz!" Willow exclaims with true joy. She jumps to her feet and makes for the newcomer-apparently, Mr. Osbourne.

William is beginning to despair of ever participating in proper introductions again.

A shuffling of seats puts William back in his original chair, while husband and wife share the large crate.

"Oz, this is Mr. William Pratt. Elizabeth and Giles are helping him with a nocturnal nuisance." Willow's eyebrows waggle outrageously. She sounds like she's teasing, which puts William immediately on edge. But there's no malice in her eyes. Quite the contrary.

Elizabeth shakes her head. "Easy now, he's new to the life."

Oz regards William and William relaxes. There's something very calming about the other man. Like finding a quiet nook in a noisy room.

"It can be a rough adjustment," Oz says.

"The life?"

Oz nods.

William looks around, brow furrowed. "I was under the impression this was highly secretive information?"

"It is to the general public. But there are a fair number of us who have been exposed for one reason or another. Now!" Willow claps her hands. "I hear you need a barrier spell recast over your home. I just have a few simple questions relating to dimensions—"

"I beg your pardon?" William interrupts, shock loosening his tongue. "You want to cast a spell on my home?" Perhaps he hadn't heard correctly.

"Well, yes. Normally, every human home has a natural protective barrier—Elizabeth went over this, did she not?—but when a vampire is issued an invitation the barrier dissolves and can only be put back by means of magical incantation. This can be done easily enough. If you could describe the number of entrances, including all windows and the cellar—oh! And the relative location of your chimney to your main door, ah—that isn't vampire related, it's more for, um." Willow catches Elizabeth's wide eyes. "Well, never mind. I'll just need to know where the chimney will be, as well as the general size of your property. And please round up. This will help me portion things out, see."

Willow pauses and takes a good look at William. She blushes. "Oh no! I've lost you. I can get carried away. Shall I repeat the list?"

William shakes his head. "I was more concerned about the magic, really."

Elizabeth clears her throat. "Giles mentioned needing the ingredients for a spell. Honestly, you handled the vampire news so well, I thought you had also done the same for magic."

William thinks, _nothing makes sense; nothing can surprise me._

He says: "Vampires _and_ magic. Right."

The others smile at him with some relief. Willow nods enthusiastically. "Fantastic, Mr. Pratt! Now that we're all caught up—"

"I'm terribly sorry, but I cannot for the life of me imagine what you are talking about. You want to protect my home and more importantly, _my mother_ , against a horrible fanged monster using _magic_? I'll need more than your word to be convinced of that." He sees the others startle back slightly at his suddenly forthright tone. William always finds it easier to make demands when the results directly affect his mother.

Willow glances around, cautiously. Oz nods to her. Willow, her back to the doorway leading to the shop, places her hands flat on the table and closes her eyes. She murmurs in Latin, too quickly for William to catch. He hears the words for _mouth_ and _sound_ then abruptly, all noise dies in the shop.

William blinks. He leans over to see through to the shop. Patrons bustle about, the other room still just as crowded as before. He can see people's mouths moving, but they emit no sound. William's chest clenches. As if to make up for the silence, his heart drums a wild beat.

Terrifying.

Absolutely amazing.

William stands and unsteadily makes his way to the doorway. He watches a man leave the shop. The bell above the door shakes merrily. And noiselessly. Nearer to William, a child darts past his mother to grab at a clear green glass jar, filled with what looks like hard candies. The jar slips and falls. The glass shatters into dozens of pieces. A foul stench permeates the air from the wreckage and the child's face scrunches up as he begins to cry.

Silent. All is silent.

William sticks his fingers in his ears and wiggles, as if that would solve anything. The pressure in his chest grows, like an untapped scream. No one else in the shop acts like anything is out of the ordinary, like the world isn't suddenly an even more alien place than ever—

A touch at his elbow.

Elizabeth, brow puckered with concern. _Are you all right?_ Her mouth forms the words and William imagines her voice in his head. He nods. She guides him back to the table, waving at Willow. Willow is sitting perfectly still, unmoved from when she began. Slowly, the witch-woman blinks, and sound is restored. It wells up in William's awareness like the tide crashing to shore. He grips the table and closes his eyes, letting himself acclimate.

Voices. Laughter. Argument. A child crying.

He opens his eyes, and the sees the others staring at him.

"Too much?" Willow asks. She sounds nervous. Elizabeth's mouth forms a flat line.

"I only just told him about vampires this morning."

"Oh! _Far_ too much. I'm so terribly sorry! What you must think…" Willow bites her lip and exchanges an anxious glance with her husband.

Oz looks at William. "Big day for you," he says.

"Quite." William is happy to hear his own voice, somehow not trembling.

In the shop, someone calls for assistance. Willow twists her hands together. "I better get that."

Oz stands. "I've got it. Take care of the spell." He turns to William. "Good to meet you." William rises to shake the man's hand automatically. "Although we're strange, we hope you won't be a stranger."

William laughs weakly, unable to help himself. "Is that what you tell everyone?"

"Just the people we like." Oz leaves to run the counter.

Elizabeth's green eyes fix to his. "Mr. Pratt, Willow will need to know the dimensions she specified." She's watching him curiously. William doesn't know what to make of it. His brain is too busy running in crazed circles to care much.

As they get down to the business of measuring out the necessary magical protection for William's home, Willow remarks, "You know, Oz doesn't take to just anyone."

William can feel both women glancing at him from the corners of their eyes while they focus on doling out sand and other powdered ingredients into small drawstring bags.

Elizabeth's attention touches him like a hot iron, searing the side of his face. William keeps his eyes averted.

If the power of special female sight truly does exist, William wonders what Elizabeth can see beneath his earthly skin.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer still applies.

* * *

Rupert alone accompanies William home to restore the natural protection over his house. William watches dubiously as the man sprinkles sand along entryways and murmurs incantations read from a book propped in his arm. William clears his throat and sends Lettie, their young house maid, on a pointless errand to get her curious eyes off the proceedings.

Witchcraft. William never imagined life could be so strange.

William trails after Rupert, idly wondering what poor Margaret will think of the grit along every doorway and window. Their old housekeeper may have a fit. William makes a mental note to explain to his mother whose fault the sand is, so as not to get any of the servants in unwarranted trouble.

Soon the work is complete and Rupert closes his book. His magic book, William is reminded with lingering unease when he glimpses the title: _General and Reversal Spells_.

Pushing his spectacles up with one finger, Elizabeth's guardian casts a look about William's parlour.

"Decorative?" Rupert asks dryly, nodding toward a bookshelf filled with thick texts.

"Hardly," William says. "Many of those are mine from university."

"Oh?" For the first time, Rupert sounds mildly and politely interested in William. "What did you study?"

William straightens. "Language, literature, and anthropology, mostly. I was most unfortunately cut short in my studies. I hope to continue someday through Oxford." Some inner part of William shrinks, waiting for censure. His chosen subjects aren't the most practical, after all, and there have been many over the years to point it out to him. Truly, the only person to encourage William's natural scholarly interests has been his mother, who champions him at every turn.

Rupert gives William his full attention, eyes critical upon his person. "Is that so?" he says, mostly to himself. "Hmm. Very well. We are through here. Instruct your staff not to issue any specific invitations to strangers after dark and be sure everyone in your household understands Drusilla's appearance, so that they may turn her away at the door. You should have no further trouble, but if you do," Rupert drops his chin to peer meaningfully at William over his spectacles. "Bring your queries to me."

William thanks him, shakes his hand, and sees him to the newly protected door. "It doesn't look any different."

"It won't. The barrier is invisible. Good day." With that, Elizabeth's mercurial guardian leaves.

William hopes he hasn't just been duped. Invisible barrier. At least the man didn't charge for his services.

* * *

Elizabeth trudges through the night, the sound of her sensible boots echoing off the street and nearby townhome walls.

So far, she's dusted three tipsy vampires and nearly finished the last stretch of patrol she planned to cover for the evening. A very easy circuit tonight.

Elizabeth doesn't exactly have a pattern to her patrols. Patterns can be learned and she can't afford to become predictable lest her foe catch on and change its habits to avoid her. She is left in a bind though due to London's sheer size. Here more than a year and Elizabeth has yet to walk all of London, despite the whole city technically being her territory as Slayer. Who knows what supernatural atrocities happen every night in every corner of this stinking beast of a city? She's only one girl, and she can't go indefinitely without rest.

Just as she's thinking of returning home, men's shouting catches her attention. Elizabeth pulls her hat more firmly over her pinned up hair and runs for it.

She follows the sound of breaking chaos down to the docks. As she draws closer, she has to dodge a number of men dashing the opposite direction. An older, grizzled fellow who looks to be a sailor stops to grab her about the shoulders.

"Wrong way, lad. There's something unholy by the water. A monster!" The sailor's heavily liquored breath hits Elizabeth square in the face and she coughs. He shakes her. "It's eating people, hear me? Run!" He lets her go and stumbles away.

Elizabeth takes a moment to straighten her clothes to help keep the disguise of a lamplighter boy intact before continuing on to the riverfront.

"Eating people," she mutters. "Drinking blood? Eating the flesh? Crunching on bones? You couldn't have been more specific?"

Elizabeth hears a giant splash and a piercing scream. She careens around the corner, but it's too late. There's a great deal of displaced water along the docks and further inland. She creeps along the water trail and peers closely at the ground. Bracken, seaweed, reddish swirl...someone's partially chewed off leg.

Elizabeth rears back, face twisting in disgust and pity. The shoe is still firmly attached even though the body has been torn to pieces. The leg may be the largest piece left. What on earth did this?

A tingle across the back of her neck alerts her to the creature's nearby presence-not in the water but on land now, if she's not mistaken. Elizabeth puts the river to her back and follows the water trail past storage facilities and the shipyard and into town. The trail goes cold by some seedy bars filled with raucous human noise. Elizabeth takes comfort in the proof that she isn't alone in the world, no matter how poor her human company may be.

Elizabeth goes still, opening up her senses to the area. Instinct pulls her toward the bar. She pauses near the entrance then swings around the back.

More blood in the alley. Scratches score the wall twice as high up as Elizabeth is tall. A large beast. From the water.

Elizabeth needs Giles. She grips her stake a bit uncertainly. Underprepared and insufficiently armed. But she cannot allow the creature to go on eating Londoners. Elizabeth sinks into a hunter's crouch and follows the trail of destruction.

* * *

William finishes his breakfast and prepares for a day at the office with less enthusiasm than ever. How is he to focus on clerical law work when he knows monsters exist on the fringes of the night? His work seems so foolish in comparison.

Anne smiles at him from across the table. "I'm so glad you're feeling well enough to return to the office, William. I'm sure you've been missed."

He sincerely doubts that. His disbelief must show on his face because his mother adds:

"No one will think less of you for taking the time to recover from an attack." She pats his hand. "I hope you will consider the Eastmond's dinner invitation for tomorrow evening. It will do you a world of good to socialize again."

William idly turns the paper over and over. "Did I already agree to go?"

"You most certainly did," Anne says. She rises, a twinkle in her eye. "I believe Miss Addams will be in attendance."

Dear God. Now William definitely won't be going. He can't imagine facing Cecily after the spectacle he made of himself at Thaddeus' party. He gets up as well. "I'm not sure I'm feeling quite that recovered."

Anne face falls in slight disappointment, but she nods. "I'll send your regrets."

William sets out for the law office where his practice has probably not grown or shrunk a tiny bit with his absence. He arrives mid-morning and avoids the eyes of the clerks who whisper behind his back and of the lawyers who bustle about. He quickly shuts himself into his own space, a door solidly between him and the rest of the floor. William sets himself to the task of combing through the inevitable accumulated paperwork.

After searching high and low, William must unfortunately brave the main hall again. "Has anyone called on me these last few days?"

Phillips, a large fellow with a practice across the hall, shakes his head. "Sorry to say, Pratt, no one has come by in a long time. Had you not cancelled your appointments this week?"

Discomfort crawls up William's spine, stiffening his shoulders. "I-no. Yesterday and before was-no one at all?"

Phillips shrugs. "Only my clients down here."

William thanks the man and moves on. One of the clerks who often runs errands for William excuses himself from a conversation with a group of lawyers and approaches William. "Welcome back, Mr. Pratt. I hope all is well?"

"Much better, thank you. Have I any cases?" That was a bit abrupt, and William backtracks at the irritated look in the clerk's eyes. "I trust things have been well with you and your…yours," William adds, hardly able to remember the clerk's name, much less his family situation.

"Nora and I are fine, thank you sir. No new cases that I've heard of. Mr. Siddons sent his regards and payment for that bit of translation work you did for them earlier this month. I left it for you in your desk."

"Fantastic," William says. He goes back to his office, eyes downcast.

So. Business is slow. Hard to be a contributing member of society when no one cares for his contributions. William's thoughts turn to Elizabeth and every person he's met through her. Oz and Willow, even Rupert Giles. He can't imagine a single one of them sitting around on their hands, wishing for some meaningful way to fill the hours.

He wants to see her again. He wants to know more about vampires, about magic, about _slaying._

A cheer goes up outside his door. A win for someone. William straightens his desk and pokes around in the drawers. Normally, he has a steady, but not overwhelming, stream of projects to complete. Writing law scripts for the courtroom lawyers. Proofreading the finer points made in Latin or translating foreign business. William makes a tidy living charging fees for these services. His work, more of a profitable hobby than anything, keeps him busy, but not so busy that he can't take full days away from the office to pursue other enjoyments. Often, he writes for his own pleasure. Recently, he has been obsessed with imagining the perfect approach to win Cecily's heart.

William groans softly, remembering the humiliation of his last attempt. Too much to hope for, that no one remembers.

A knock at his door is a pleasing distraction. Nicholas-that's right, Nicholas and Nora, good alliteration-enters with a bouquet of all things. The strange sight stymies William. "Yes?" He asks, dumbly.

A few other men have congregated in the hall behind Nick's back and the open door. They all have mean laughter in their faces. Nick sets the bouquet on William's desk. "For you, sir. Delivered just now from a secret admirer." Nick's expression is absolutely professional.

Someone sniggers in the hall. "Beautiful blossoms, Pratt!" a voice calls. William frowns. The flowers are all black and dead, tied together with a purple ribbon and a sealed card.

He shoos Nick out the door and shuts it firmly, ignoring the jesters. William opens the card with his mouth pressed in a thin line. If this is a prank…

A copy of an opera advert falls out. Specifically, an advert for the opera William recently decided to attend, but had not yet made any arrangements for. The bottom of the paper is inscribed: _See you soon, my darling boy._

William has a terrible feeling he knows the identity of his secret admirer. Hadn't Drusilla worn purple ribbon in her hair? He shakily shoves the card back into its envelope and gathers his things. He will be getting no work done here today.

* * *

William's panic builds on the way home as he considers the implications of the gift. Dead flowers delivered to his place of business. How did Drusilla know to send them there? What meaning in the withered stems? Perhaps she still wishes to kill him. Oh God.

And does the opera paper mean she knows where he plans to spend his leisure time? How could she possibly, when William has notified no one, made no arrangements-

His carriage halts in front of an increasingly familiar house. William thanks the driver and leaps out, quickly making his way up the walk.

No one answers the door. William shifts back and forth on his feet, feeling both silly and anxious, standing on Rupert and Elizabeth's stoop with a bouquet of long-dead flowers. Perhaps no one is home.

A muffled shout from within catches William's attention. "Mr. Giles?" William knocks again, worry filling him. He tries the handle and finds the door unlocked. William pushes in and looks around. "Hello? Is anyone home?"

A clatter from a room down the hall moves him in that direction. "Is everything al...right?" William trails off when he sees a trail of blood and a wet coat in the doorway. He raises his eyes and double takes at the sight before him.

The maid is helping a young man out of a torn and gruesomely stained shirt. It is the man who cries out, high and exasperated, "We'll need to set it first-!"

The maid, Mary, clucks, "Now Miss, hold still. This will be much easier without these silly suspenders in the way-"

Hunched over in pain though he is, the man somehow just notices William in the doorway and looks up.

William steps back in alarm. Elizabeth! William flushes, eyes darting away and back again. "W-what?" That's Elizabeth, in trousers and other male clothing. And her shoulder-her _bare shoulder-_

William about-faces and speaks to the hallway portrait of Rupert Giles' ancestor. "Your shoulder!"

"Mr. Pratt!" Mary appears at his elbow. "How on earth did you get in here?"

"I'm so terribly sorry. Your door was open, and I heard a shout…" William glances back into the room. Elizabeth is clutching her shirt against her chest, only a sliver of bare skin exposed on her shoulder. She's wearing a lad's working clothes, her golden hair pinned up, mostly covered by a cap. It's no wonder he didn't recognize her from behind.

Elizabeth's cheeks are pink. "I'm fine," she says, though that can't be true. Her shoulder is no longer in line with her collarbone. Blood splatters stain her whole left side from chin to waist.

"Is it broken?"

"No. No, I just need to pop it back in-"

"Good God!" William says, feeling faint. "I don't mean to stare."

"I understand," Elizabeth says, blush deepening. "This must look-"

"Entirely inappropriate!" Mary cuts off the embarrassed babble. "Out with you, Mr. Pratt. Wait in the entry like a proper guest. There's seating if you should need it."

"Doesn't she need a doctor?" William asks, as he's herded away. "There's so much blood!"

"Miss Elizabeth knows well and fine her own limitations. You best remember yours. Now stay out of trouble and out of the way." Mary bustles back to her charge, eyes blazing with the determination borne of an emergency situation.

Gaping after her, William sits as he was told, mind spinning. The urge to do something, be helpful, courses through him. Feeling like the most useless dunce in the world, he bounces his leg and waits, hand still gripping the dead flowers tightly. Needing to move, he rises and begins to pace.

Some time later, Mary returns with a servant's humble attitude firmly in place. "Miss Summers will see you now." She shoots him a warning look from under her lashes and takes up her station in the hall as William walks into the back room.

"Are you quite alright?" William blurts, eyes wide. Elizabeth is resting at the table, shawl around her shoulders, which look normal again. She's changed into a simple dress, the kind William sees his mother wear when there isn't going to be company. Her hair is mostly pinned up, though he sees now that some pieces have escaped to curl around her red-stained neck.

"Is something wrong?" Elizabeth asks. She self-consciously moves a strand of hair away from her cheek. William thinks she looks exhausted, but quite lovely in spite of it.

"Something is strange," William says after a moment. "Did you just return from...patrol?"

Elizabeth shifts stiffly in her chair. "Yes."

"A vampire did this to you?" William pulls up a chair. "All that blood…"

"Only some of it is mine, thankfully." Elizabeth says. "And it was not a vampire. Have you had more trouble with Drusilla?"

"I think so, but I hate to bother you with this when you obviously have larger concerns." William can't believe how hurt Elizabeth had been. "Please, I want to help. Is there anything I can do?"

Elizabeth's face softens. "Thank you, Mr. Pratt. But this is a duty I must bear alone."

Mary enters with a breakfast tray. "Tea with your meal, ma'am?"

"Yes, please." Mary sets everything in its right place and Elizabeth smiles weakly around her maid. "I'm happy to have you for breakfast."

William stares. "But not in the vampiric sense, I'm sure."

A laugh bursts from his strange companion. "I'm not minding my phrasing well this morning, am I?"

"Well, I certainly can't blame you," William says, accepting his tea. "What a morning it has been already."

Elizabeth smiles. "And night, too. Would you know, I thought last night would end without fuss? Now here you are and here I am and it's been nothing but a complete mess."

"So very sorry again-" William begins.

"Don't concern yourself with apologies, please. Giles was right when he said we don't stand on ceremony around here. I find little time for it, to be honest." Elizabeth pulls her plate closer and hesitates. She hasn't lifted her left arm at all during their conversation and William can guess why.

"Allow me, then." William prepares Elizabeth's plate for her, spreading the jam and finishing other odd tasks that usually require the use of both arms.

The atmosphere relaxes between the two and Elizabeth sighs, not unhappily. "It's good to have company this morning. That's what I meant before, by my mixed up statement."

"I understood," William says.

Elizabeth glances at the depressing bouquet William brought into the room. "I hope those aren't for me," she teases. "Dead flowers are not a good omen in my line of work."

"Nor in anyone's," William agrees. "An admirer left them for me at my business. I think Drusilla sent them."

Elizabeth's expression shifts into one of professional interest. She asks him questions over their spontaneous meal and he explains his reasoning the best he can, pointing out the strange detail with the opera advertisement.

By the time they've fleshed the whole thing out, Elizabeth's brow is furrowed. "Odd that she knows your routine. Is there someone in your personal circle who may have alerted her to your activities? Not that I'm suggesting betrayal," she hastens to say. "Someone may have informed her with innocent intentions, not realizing the damage."

"I'd only decided to attend this opera the morning of Drusilla's attack, mere days ago. No one could have known about it."

Elizabeth and William ponder together in silence. Though she hasn't offered any solution, William feels comforted for discussing it with someone knowledgeable in these matters.

"I'd guess she's been following you for some time," Rupert's voice sounds from the doorway. William jolts in surprise, not realizing the man was even home. Rupert takes a seat by Elizabeth's side, pressing his hand to her back. At her wince, he shakes his head. "Dislocated?"

"Badly," Elizabeth admits.

"Mary informed me of the events of last night and this morning," Rupert doesn't seem angry, merely resigned. "I suppose there's no reason to send Mr. Pratt away for this conversation, is there?" He sets some paper down in front of Elizabeth, Mary in the background clearing away dishes and cutlery. "Can you sketch the likeness of the beast?"

Elizabeth nods and begins penning the shape of a fearsome skeletal creature. William scoots closer to view it better as the image takes shape on the page. A tall beast with a hunched back that appears to be all ribcage, low haunches ending with webbed feet and webbed hands curled into claws…

Rupert drops a stack of books on the table in front of William, startling him back from where he'd unknowingly leaned forward.

"You're well versed in Latin, of course," Rupert says with raised eyebrows.

"Naturally," William says, a bit perplexed.

Rupert places an anthology squarely in front of him. "Cross-reference Elizabeth's creature in this text. I will return shortly." Like a schoolmaster assigning bookwork, Rupert leaves them to their separate tasks and disappears again.

Elizabeth has paused, pen hovering over paper to stare after her guardian in surprise. She exchanges curious looks with William.

"I'm to cross-reference," William clarifies. He blinks at the very old book before him.

"I must say, this is unusual," Elizabeth says. "Giles is very picky about who he lets handle his books."

With sudden verve, William straightens and opens the book. Purpose fuels his careful page turns and a scholarly gleam lights his eye.

"Mr. Pratt?" Elizabeth asks.

William smiles confidently at Elizabeth. "Trust me, Miss Summers. This, I can do."

* * *

Congratulating himself on successful redirection, Rupert makes his way to the back of the house where Mary waits for him, looking worried.

"Anything?" he asks her.

"Nothing but more standing about," Mary says. "Mr. Giles, will you be needing any more help at all, sir?"

What a question. Ms. Mary Finching is too discerning for her own good. "Keep an eye on our guest, Mary." Rupert fidgets with his coat sleeve. "We may be an unusual household, but that is no call for impropriety to reign free."

This is the sort of speech Rupert knows Mary clings to in her church services and it clearly runs strong in her innermost thoughts. But his world-weary maid is no fool. She meets his gaze head-on. "Aptly spoken, Mr. Giles. Advice well to be remembered, sir." Mary ducks her head and leaves him, silently fuming.

He can manage his own affairs, thank you very much, without the meddling of a housemaid! Rupert's sudden burst of anger simmers to familiar agitation when he comes to the service door where an oft-cursed acquaintance waits for him.

Ethan Rayne is leaning against the doorjamb and the usual devious delight is missing from his serious features today. Ethan straightens. "Ah, Ripper. Just the man I want to see."

"Ripper is as dead to me as you are, Ethan," Rupert says, voice cold.

Ethan shambles closer. "Not true, my friend, no matter how fiercely you repeat the lie. Now enough of that. I'm here on business, not pleasure."

Making a face, Rupert sighs. "What is it this time? You owe money? I've told you before, my finances are tied up in much worthier matters. I cannot lend to you again."

"No, no. My troubles are so much worse than financial ruin." Rupert frowns severely. Ethan's voice drops to an urgent hiss. "Listen closely, because these are your troubles too."

Rupert pales. "Not another death."

Ethan's smile is ghoulish. "Oh, yes. Another one down. How many to go, is it now? There's you and there's me and there's poor Sutcliffe who's gone missing as of late."

"And Henry?"

"Gone the way of the others, I'm afraid."

Rupert presses his knuckles to his brow and curses. "Damn thing is picking us off! God. Henry, of all of us, didn't deserve such an end."

"I'm of the mind that I don't deserve to be killed and worn like yesterday's old smoking jacket by an evil spirit. But that's just my way of thinking."

"Will you shut it? Let me think." Rupert paces tight circles. "Our previous attempt was in vain, then."

"Obviously."

Rupert drags a hand down his face. "I only participated to try and free Henry of Eyghon's influence. His wife, his children…"

"Burdens, the lot of them." Ethan holds up his hands at the glare he receives for this remark. "Don't dabble in black magic when you have tots at home, that's all I'm saying. Relax, Ripper. You know I would never speak ill of a grieving widow or of fatherless children."

A solid _crunch_ and Ethan is staggering back with a bloody nose. "What the devil was that for?" Ethan swipes at his sore lip.

Rupert's eyes glint almost inhumanly through his glasses. "Do not speak of Henry or his family again."

"Consider it done," Ethan grumbles. "I'm more worried about me-and you-anyway. We have to try again. Stop pulling our punches, ah, magically speaking." Ethan eyes his old friend warily.

Rupert steps out into the courtyard and shuts the door behind him. "No. I'm through with all that. Find another way and we'll talk."

"There is no other way and you know it," Ethan says, angling close for the hushed conversation. "Dark magicks brought Eyghon to life, the same is what will banish him."

"I cannot be involved." Rupert is firm. "My attention is needed elsewhere."

"With your Slayer?" Ethan scoffs. "What a joke- _you_ charged with a Slayer. You have to know your precious Council wouldn't just give someone with past as checkered as yours that sort of responsibility without a hell of a price tag."

"Obviously, the Council's motives are suspect" Rupert snaps. "But my girl is not. She needs me, for the mission and for support. I won't jeopardize that for anything."

Ethan leans against the outer wall of the house, eyebrows arched high. "And what will the Slayer do when her Watcher and guardian gets killed and possessed by a malevolent spirit, hmm? Will she do her duty and slay the thing that used to be _you?_ "

Rupert spins away, breathing heavily. Through his clothes, he rubs at the mark tattooed on his upper arm. "I won't let it get that far."

"Fine words," Ethan remarks dryly. "How do you plan on accomplishing that, exactly? I'm sure at this point you've exhausted all other avenues in your own research, same as I. Face it, Ripper. We need each other. And we need to crack open that old black magic once more." Ethan sidles up to Rupert's side. "Your gypsy girl will just have to be content with one little relapse."

Rupert shoves Ethan back. "Don't speak of Jenny, either!"

"Alright, alright. Touchy," Ethan mutters, straightening his vest. "Your company used to be more enjoyable, old friend, before you started walking the straight and narrow."

"Maybe so, but my life is better for it." Rupert covers his eyes, thinking. "You still have that place by Bishopsgate?"

Ethan's face cracks into triumphant lines. "I do. Come by tonight, we'll sort this out." Rupert doesn't answer, but Ethan recognizes capitulation when he sees it. "In the meantime, watch yourself Ripper."

With a final distracted glare over his shoulder, Rupert Giles reenters his home and shuts the door in Ethan's face.

He wends his way upstairs to his locked study. With shaking hands, Rupert lets himself in and moves a stack of his belongings off of a large curio chest. He stares down at the locked case with slight trepidation. Not so long ago that he'd pulled these items out with the heady excitement of an addict. Rupert unlocks the chest and sinks down to his knees to study the forbidden magicks paraphernalia within. The draw is still there, but it is balanced by a very real fear of consequences that had been missing in his life for years. So much more to lose now. Jenny. Elizabeth. God knows what else.

He reaches for a thick book bound in protective leather and chains.

Jenny will have his head for this.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer continues. Watch for double update. I'm putting up two new chapters today (7 and 8). Please enjoy!

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Elizabeth watches William swallow hard yet again as he pages through the book Giles left for him. "Doing alright, Mr. Pratt?"

"Ah," William squints at the page in front of him. "This is quite disturbing."

Elizabeth's lips twitch up at his bald honesty. "Demons. They come in all shapes and sizes."

"I hadn't realized demons were quite so literal in this world," William says. "These creatures right here, for example," he points out a hulking beast with long piercing spikes extending from its arms. "They exist among us? Walk around, easy as you please and, and…"

Elizabeth eyes the printed picture. Polgara demon. She's never come across one before. "Not so easy you'd think. There's a number of demons who must be summoned; others live only in certain parts of the world, and others still have been extinct for centuries. Very few wander around during the day where just anyone can see them."

William slides her rough drawing close to his work area. "Unlike this fellow, whom you saw personally."

Elizabeth winces. "That creature was unusually conspicuous. Most of the time, monsters prefer to steal life and sustenance from the shadows."

William frowns at Elizabeth's drawing. "I don't understand why this information can't be circulated. Even the monsters seem to realize the protection secrecy affords them."

"That's just the way it's always been," Elizabeth says. "Can you imagine a world where this was common knowledge?"

William appears to consider this, then shudders. "That'd be quite a bit more chaotic, I'd think."

Elizabeth nods. "Yes. I would also argue that it would free creatures of the night to hunt without fear, as they would already be exposed. And that could be even more dangerous."

Silence lapses between the pair, and for a few minutes there's only the turning of the page. William checks her drawing again. "Am I looking at this right? Your creature's mouth is vertical here, not horizontal as most animals would be."

Elizabeth wrinkles her nose in remembrance. "Tall mouth with razor sharp teeth coming in from the sides? I'm positive on this detail, trust me." She rubs her injured arm absently, then catches William staring.

"It bit you?"

Elizabeth huffs. "My flesh caught in its mouth, if that's what you mean."

William's fingers flex on the book and his knuckles go white. "I just can't…can't imagine it. Can't imagine anyone confronting such a monster, much less—"

"A woman?" Elizabeth finishes. Her mouth twists. "My calling cared not for gender, Mr. Pratt. I fight because I must, because it's my responsibility. I'm the only one who can. Be I woman or man, this is my sacred duty."

She sees in his face that he does not understand. William looks concerned and puzzled and Elizabeth hopes that he won't do anything rash out of a misguided sense of chivalry.

"Thus the, ah, clothing choice?" William won't meet her eyes when he asks this and instantly an embarrassed flush warms Elizabeth's cheeks.

"It isn't my habit to patrol in fine dresses," she says. "The night I found you was an exception. I tend to keep a much lower profile when I…dress down."

Giles reenters, saving her from expanding on the topic, much to Elizabeth's relief. While dressing as a man is both freeing and sensible for fighting, Elizabeth feels much more at ease in beautiful gowns. This has always been a point of contention between herself and her Watchers. Though she understands the necessity of the disguise, it rankles her.

Elizabeth's calling came just as she entered society. She feels cheated of the experience so many of her friends and peers now delight in: the simple pleasure of beautifying oneself and attending parties. Mingling, laughing, making friends and connections and perhaps, one day, a smart match.

Elizabeth's shoulders droop. Dreams long imagined and cherished, dashed by her unforeseen duty.

This is the truth Elizabeth is reminded of each time she leaves her finery on the floor and dons the battered patrol costume: she will never marry. Never have children. Never. That future slammed shut the instant she was called, though she didn't fully realize it at the time.

She loathes the morbid curiosity in William's question, the strangeness of her situation, the necessity of her stagnant social life.

"Any luck?" Giles is asking William.

William snaps back to his book and flips a few pages. "I've narrowed it down to these three creatures who share the most characteristics to the being Miss Summers described." He speaks like a student answering a teacher.

Elizabeth regards the two men silently. William and Giles, conferring together. Once or twice, William's blue eyes return to her, as if to draw her into the conversation. But Elizabeth's ears are ringing, her injuries making themselves known. She leans back in her chair and folds her hands across her stomach. An informal posture she never would have taken in front of a visiting gentleman back in the days when she lived with her family. The sting of embarrassment fades and resignation falls over her. Elizabeth may not like appearing unfeminine in front of William, but the line has been crossed. As always, she endures.

Giles and William's voices grow more urgent and Elizabeth shakes off her fatigued musings to focus in the most important point: they've found the beast in the book.

"Dunkel Hai," Giles says over William's shoulder.

"Bless you," Elizabeth mutters. William shows her the drawing accompanying the description.

"Oh yes. That's the right one."

Giles has gone deep into thought. Elizabeth is confident her Watcher's agile mind will arrive to a suitable solution for their sea monster problem. She awaits his suggestion, even as she keeps an eye on William who has returned to reading the description closely. The text is not English or French and therefore it is beyond Elizabeth's ability to read. As usual, the fate of many rests on her ability to defeat a foe she cannot understand without the help of others.

William fingers the corner binding with gently thoughtful movements. "This reads like a tall tale."

"Dunkel Hai is far more than a tale." Giles paces slow circles around the room. "We'll need more than the usual weaponry, my dear."

"I noticed as much last night," Elizabeth says wryly.

"Height?"

Elizabeth stands, fighting a wave of dizziness and indicates a decorative wall piece high up above the mantle.

Giles blinks at the spot and removes his glasses and William cranes his head back. "And you survived an encounter?" William sounds a bit overwhelmed.

Elizabeth feels a tad overwhelmed herself. She has yet to rest since her ordeal. "Giles-find me a way to kill the beast. Mr. Pratt, I think you should consider additional protection. Crosses and holy water. Keep a sharp eye out for Drusilla and I will too on my patrols." Elizabeth sways woozily. If William takes offense to being issued orders by a woman, he does not show it. "We can reconvene this afternoon," she says to her Watcher.

"Do you need help?" William asks, standing a moment after her.

"To slay? Not at all," Elizabeth puts a hand to the wall to steady herself.

"I meant to lie down. You're quite pale."

"Oh." Elizabeth takes inventory of her physical state. She can make it on her own and tells both men as such.

Giles strokes his chin, eyes shifting around the room. "Mr. Pratt, your situation with the vampire Drusilla seems to be taking a great deal of time and energy on the part of my Slayer."

Elizabeth's physical discomfort fades to the background as she narrows her eyes at her guardian. What is he up to?

William seems to shrink slightly. "Yes. I haven't seen Drusilla since the night we...met. Yet, she seems to be everywhere." He turns to Elizabeth. "There are so many who rely upon you. How do you choose where to spend your effort?"

Giles cuts in. "The same way anyone does. She triages by importance. Now, your vampire problem is worth our attention, but in exchange for Elizabeth's continued protection and investigative service, I think it's only fair that you assist us in return."

"Giles-" Elizabeth begins to protest.

"Hear me out. Mr. Pratt is being stalked by this vampire, but his house has been thoroughly protected. The inhabitants know who to watch for. All that remains is his personal protection. Mr. Pratt," Giles takes his glasses off to gesture at William. "If you were to supplement our research here, you could remain safely under Elizabeth's protection. At the same time, you would be contributing to our other cases by speeding the bookwork along."

"I have you to speed the bookwork along," Elizabeth says with a knit brow. "Why should William be put to work like this?"

Giles hesitates and Elizabeth takes a good look at him. Her Watcher is tired and anxious; his thoughts are clearly elsewhere.

"My dear Elizabeth. You seem to think my researching abilities are infallible. Mr. Pratt did a fine enough job this morning pinpointing our beast. If he takes on some of the bookwork, that will free me up to complete my own projects and to focus on the purely supernatural aspects of our cases."

Elizabeth does not miss the mention of personal business Giles slipped into that explanation. She frowns. "May I speak to you alone?" She asks in a voice that insists, rather than questions.

Giles follows her to the hall, leaving poor William to remain uncomfortably excluded. "Elizabeth, I'm swamped," he heads off her protests. "I'm terribly sorry to do this to you, but some old personal business has come up. It's wretched untimely, as these things always are, but I simply cannot put it off any longer." He lays a heavy hand on her shoulder. "I can't, in good conscience, let my work with you suffer as a result. A-a research assistant of sorts may be just what we need at this juncture."

Elizabeth deflates. She doesn't want William involved anymore than he already is, but her Watcher...Elizabeth looks into the prematurely weathered face of her most steadfast ally. She can't deny him his own support, though she fears for William's safety and sanity. The Life carries people down dark and difficult paths; a fact both she and Giles can attest to. "No field work," she says at last, disapproval clear in her tone.

"Of course not," Giles sniffs. "Don't get excited. I'd hardly send you out with such a burden."

Around the corner, William cringes, catching Rupert's words. The fires of excitement in his belly gutter and extinguish with a hiss. Vampires and magic and creatures from the deep, and William is still the biggest fool in the room.

His shoulders creep up closer to his ears as he quietly organizes the books and papers on fantastic beasts into neat piles. When Elizabeth and Rupert return, he aims to look busy and unaffected. William doesn't lift his head when he hears the swish of Elizabeth's skirts. He clears his throat, eyes pointed away. "The verdict?"

Rupert steps forward. "In exchange for the special attention and overtime your case is receiving, we'd like you to step in as my research assistant-to lighten the load in other areas of our work."

Having heard as much, William isn't surprised or pleased. Not as much as he was at first.

"At least until we catch Drusilla," Rupert adds, as if he senses William's misgivings.

Minutes ago, this would have been the best offer William could have hoped for. Now he wonders how he'll fare, cooped up with the surly Rupert Giles, belittled and scorned at every turn, much like he is everywhere else.

At the same time, what can he do but agree? His life, his mother's life and the well-being of their staff are in constant jeopardy until this vampire is contained. In addition, William owes Elizabeth a debt he cannot possibly repay for saving him in that alley.

"I'll do it," William says.

Elizabeth peers at him closely. She's still quite pale and the earlier concern William felt at seeing her so out of sorts washes over him again. Elizabeth comes closer. "Are you sure? You didn't even ask for details. This is grueling work. Strange hours, dangerous circumstances. You cannot, with honesty, explain to your family and friends what it is that's occupying your time." Elizabeth's tired green eyes plead with him. "Your life may suffer for this. Please consider carefully."

Rupert's mouth tightens into a peevish slash across his face. He stares at William impatiently.

"My life would be nothing but suffering without your interference," William says. "I'm handy with translations and research. It's my business to be quick, thorough, and accurate in these matters. I am well-suited for such a position."

"Your social life may dwindle significantly," Elizabeth adds, a slight wrinkle forming along her brow, her voice strained.

William dismays that his rescuer seems to want so little to do with him. Speaking around the closed fist that somehow just formed in his throat, he scoffs. "Hard work never killed anyone," he quotes the well-worn phrase. It's not as if he has much of a social life to dash to pieces anyway. "Use me as you require, Mr. Giles."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer continues. **Double update** (Chapter 7 and 8) today. Make sure you read the previous chapter. Many thanks to my reviewers, I read them all. I appreciate hearing any and all feedback. Thanks for your patience and please enjoy!

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The late afternoon sun glows along the tops of each building. In shadow below, William trudges along down the walk, taking his time. The streets are crowded and noisy-full of clattering hansom cabs and bustling strangers. Everyone is in a hurry to reach their destination.

Stepping delicately around a filthy puddle, William morosely wishes he could be with Elizabeth and Rupert tonight, but they'd had no need of him as they had other preparations to make. William may now be the research assistant to the strange pair, but he is in no way kept abreast of anything resembling important plans.

He would have instead dined with his mother tonight had her loathsome cousin not been visiting. William can't stand Cousin Melva, that old biddy. He'd rather take his chances alone on a night about town.

Spying his favorite pub, The Crown and Star, William stamps the muck from his boots and ducks in.

Immediately, the noise lessens and William plucks his gloves off, quickly surveying the room. A couple patrons nod to him, but they are familiar faces, not acquaintances and so he relaxes. Not many gentlemen of William's circle are found in public houses where aspiring writers gather, but he always checks just in case.

William finds a table near the wall and orders a bracing claret. As he sips his drink, he reads the work posted to the wall. Amateur writings, all of them. It's a small honor to have your work displayed here. William hopes some day his own scribblings will be found worthy.

Conversation around him fizzles out as someone takes to reading a short poem aloud. William listens, smiling and scoffing into his drink in turn as the orator drones on. At its end, the man sits to a smattering of applause.

Mr. Reuben Wardle, chief among those who judges submitted work, accepts the written poem from the speaker and adds it to a file. The two men shake hands and settle round the table. Voices swell and laughter rings. William reclines into his seat with a sigh. Familiarity, at last. His head still hurts from the new world order and tonight he soothes the ache with drink.

A short time later, William is finishing off a small dinner alone at his table when he catches his pen name in the conversation at the front.

The previous speaker, a repeat featured amateur poet, is asking Wardle about the other entries.

"Slower this month," Wardle says. "Few works to choose from and poor choices at that. Aside from yourself, Mr. Breton, the best writing submitted was from the anonymous Mr. W. P. Spike. That should tell you all you need to know about the quality of our submissions."

Snickers all around. Horrified, William shrinks in his chair. He gulps down his last bite of dinner, which has gone suddenly tasteless.

Breton puffs up, smug and falsely disappointed. "Pity. I'd love to have some real competition again. Whatever happened to Chuzzlewit? Or Gregson? Even old Lloyd would be a breath of fresh air."

"Perhaps it's time we came up with some scheme to draw in new blood…"

William longs to leave, but he doesn't want to draw attention to himself. God, even here, they mock his writing! Shame heats his cheeks and he readies himself for departure, though he remains at his table.

Something tickles his memory at the word blood and William suddenly remember the dead bouquet of flowers.

"Oh!" he twists to peer out the grimy window. Is it dark already? William rises in a hurry, admonishing himself. He isn't used to the curfew imposed by virtue of his undead stalker. Still, he isn't such a fool as to purposefully tempt fate by ignoring Rupert's warnings to stay indoors at night. Lingering past sunset had been a mere accident. Hopefully, not a fatal one.

His heart starts pumping as if he'd set off at a dead run. Calm yourself, man.

As he passes the main table, a hand grabs his sleeve, making him jump.

One of the club members for the poet's club. "Excuse me sir, I've noticed you frequent our readings. Are you at all interested in writing?"

"No," William blurts under the scrutiny of the entire group. "Poetry is a lovely undertaking, but I'm a mere admirer." He says no more, though he should. His heart pounds harder with the thrill and self-hatred of his lie. He's actually starting to feel ill from it.

Warble smiles benignly. "Well, we are always looking for contributions if you change your mind, Mister...?"

Eek! "Pratt," William supplies, offering a clammy hand. He waits for recognition and censure to fall upon him. It never comes. They shake hands. Breton nods to him in a rather condescending way. The rest are jovial enough.

As William exits, he thinks he has never been so grateful for his insight to take a pen name so far removed from his own. Despite the presence of his own initials (a small hubris), the surname Spike would never be attributed to a gentleman such as himself. For now, William's reputation before the club is safe.

He steps outside. The street is very dark. Fear presses in again and William feels his petty concerns slip away. He'd better hail a-

Something knocks into him, hard. William stumbles off the curb with a curse.

"Watch it!" barks a broad-shouldered man whose heavy features turn almost brutish as he scowls.

William's mouth drops open at the other's audacity. "Sir, you ran into me!"

His antagonist moves in and looms over him in a fast movement that freezes William in place. A meaty hand grabs his collar and lifts him clear off his feet.

The man's flat brown eyes burn into his. "I said, watch yourself. You misunderstanding simple English now?"

God, but the other fellow is strong! William swallows and shakes his head. The hulking man glances down to William's throat with sudden interest. His other cold hand reaches up to touch the small bandage at William's throat.

Noise at the pub door. People exiting. The man grins at him in a too-friendly way and sets William back down.

A surprised sound. "Trouble, gentlemen?" It's Breton, and some others stepping forward.

The frightening man laughs. "None sirs. A pleasant evening to all." He doffs his hat and moves away, dark coat swishing around his knees. It only takes a moment before fog and darkness swallow the man's figure up.

William finds he's shaking.

Breton appears at his elbow. "An unsavory sort, Irishmen. And that one, just playing at manners." He harrumphs. "Let's get you to a cab, Mr. Pratt."

And that is how William is accompanied by Breton, of all people, to the corner where he offers to share the fare. Still slightly stunned, and more than a little dismayed, William climbs into the hansom cab with Breton to be conducted home.

Breton asks him if he knows the man from the street. William does not-and tells him so.

"It's a sad state of affairs, but a man really must take precautions these days," Breton says. "Brutes and villains are everywhere in London. Have you read the papers recently?"

"Yes," William says shortly, trying to end the conversation. He has no desire to speak to the man.

"I cannot stand such violence." Breton shivers delicately and taps his cane to the floor as if to punctuate his statement. "What is the world coming to? Gruesome murders in the east end. Fights by the docks. Angry men ready to use their fists at the slightest provocation. It isn't civil."

"Not much is, it seems," William remarks, a bit dryly.

Breton focuses in sharply like he's really seeing William for the first time. "That's true, isn't it? Most unfortunate. Personally," here, he leans forward. "I write to offer a perspective other than the dark obsessions of the paper, and more honest than the oversimplified drivel that the moralists of our time spout. We as a people cannot forget beauty and light despite the reality we live in."

To William's great irritation, he finds himself agreeing with Breton's every point. Their ideals match; though Breton presents his in a much more articulate fashion. Damn it all.

"Keep writing," William says honestly, hardly able to believe he is advising such a thing to his unwitting rival. "I think London needs all the beauty and truth it can get."

Laugh lines wrinkle around the other man's eyes and his face fills with a genuine smile. "Ned Breton."

"William Pratt," William mutters, accepting the handshake.

Their transportation rolls to a stop, and Breton implores him to attend club meetings more often. As he wishes William an energetic farewell, William gets the impression that the other man just took a shine to him.

Well, he muses, my evening can't get any worse.

William's evening gets worse.

Several blocks later, the cab wheel snaps and William is forced to either wait for repairs-unlikely at this time of night-or to find other transportation. His driver suggests a pick up point just around the corner and William sets off for it, kicking himself for ever venturing out.

He makes his way to the spot the driver indicated, but sees no one. In fact, the street is fairly empty. He can hear footfalls down the road and voices farther on, but William is entirely alone.

Unease prickling along his neck, William cautiously sits at a bench under a lit streetlamp. The fog is thick and swirls in a mesmerizing way by the edge of the shrubbery lining the walk.

The longer he sits there, the more William feels like a thousand eyes are watching him from just beyond where he can see.

He thinks of Elizabeth's picture, of the beast's height and razor sharp teeth. He thinks of the blood staining Elizabeth's side and his own torn neck.

Fear twines with anger and fuels William's limbs. He jumps to his feet, eyes darting around and begins walking toward the voices he hears. It has to be safer around other people.

The fog confuses his senses and soon William is lost. He sheepishly ask for directions from the occasional servant he sees hurrying their way home. Each time he tries to apply himself to the given instructions, he ends up more turned around than ever.

"Stay calm," he whispers to himself for the hundredth time. William will be thrilled if he can even find another group of people again. The streets seem all but deserted. How late is it?

He follows the street's turns and bends and with increasing anxiety, randomly choosing a direction when confronted with forks in the road. None of the street names sound familiar. The shops and homes around him are dirty and broken down. In darkened doorways, small, grubby children blend in with refuse. William turns back the way he came, hoping to find a respectable looking home to approach, but in every direction there is only more squalor.

Where the devil is he?

Shuffling and low voices. William spins in a slow circle. The walls are very close along this street. He's starting to feel trapped. "Hello?"

Silence.

Run, some instinct warns, and William listens. He takes off, boots clacking like gunshots against the hard ground, and he hears the sound of pursuit behind him. Harsh breaths. Over his shoulder he sees a whole group of youngish men emerge from the gloom. The one in front holds a blade.

He didn't survive a vampire attack just to die now in this manner! The crazy thought spurs him on and William abruptly bursts onto a wider, more populated road with a gasp. To the side, he sees the blue of the new police uniform dash in the direction William just came from.

"Halt!" an official voice cries, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. William presses on. He smells rank, wet river scent and realizes he's reached the Thames. Stunned by how far off course he'd tarried, William makes for the yellow light of a rowdy looking tavern by the water. He still can't see the river, but he can hear it, smell it. He watches where he steps carefully, not wishing to fall in by accident.

William somehow make it to the tavern without further harassment and enters with a sigh of sheer exhaustion. Sweat sticks his hair to his forehead and he braces his hands on his hips to catch his breath.

His vision clears and he realizes he's face to face with a round-eyed barmaid. She looks him up and down with disbelief. William gulps when he sees how overdressed he is for this crowd. The girl grins at him. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I, uh…" William's still panting. Several thug-ish men have fixed their attention on him. A couple big fellows begin pushing their way towards him through the noisy tavern. "I was just-"

"He's with me," a voice rings out. William almost collapses in sweet relief when he sees Rupert Giles approach. Elizabeth's guardian snags his arm and begins dragging him off to the side.

"Mr. Giles?" William gasps.

"Shut up, you fool. Let me handle this."

The two bruisers have reached them. Rupert, not looking at all out of place among the rough crowd in either dress or disposition, glares at the men. "Are we going to have a problem?" he asks, silkily.

Bruiser One sucks at his teeth and eyes William. "What's this, Ripper? We don't cater to his kind."

"He's my companion for tonight. Are you telling me I'm not to conduct my business at The Rat any longer?"

Bruiser Two glances nervously behind him. "Now, we said no such thing. Just tell your friend we ain't responsible for him getting his fancy boots stolen right off his dainty feet."

"Noted," Rupert says coldly. He pulls William over to the corner by the back door. The occupants at the nearest table give them a curious and unnerved glance as they get up and move away.

William sits on the stool Rupert pushes to him. He gapes at the man, half-wondering if he'd fallen asleep at home and never left on this crazy adventure at all.

Rupert kicks him sharply under the table. "What the blazes do you think you're doing, Pratt?"

William winces, stretching his sore leg. Okay, not dreaming. "I have no idea."

"That much is obvious!" Rupert adjusts his cap lower over his eyes. "Are you following me?"

"No," William hurriedly says. "I've no clue as to even our most general location. I'm quite lost."

Rupert maintains eye contact for a few moments longer then leans back with a sigh. "Hopeless," he mutters, rubbing a hand down his scarred face.

"I'm not hopeless," William returns, utterly fed up. "I'm adjusting. And I've had the worst sort of evening."

"No worse than mine," Rupert eyes the noisy room beyond their corner. "I doubt my contact will even meet with me now that I have you hanging about like a bloody albatross around my bloody neck."

Too insulted to think of an appropriate reply, William sinks down with a sullen glare at his unexpected savior.

Rupert stiffens. "Well, it appears I spoke too soon." The harsh lines ease around his mouth. "Now listen, I don't have time for your nonsense. Keep quiet and let me do the talking."

William opens his mouth.

"Starting now," Rupert says with exasperation. "This is for Elizabeth's benefit. I won't have you mucking this up."

Duly chastised, William falls quiet and tries to brace himself for whatever is to happen next.


End file.
